


It's All In The Phrasing

by vintagenoise



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, Other, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagenoise/pseuds/vintagenoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1924. Dallon Weekes is a part of Chicago's Flaming Youth: rich, trendy, bored young men who thrive on jazz, illegal liquor, and the most sexually liberated women (and men) in American history. But when a young man in a bookstore catches his attention, Dallon's carefree little world gets thrown off its axis, and he's not sure if he'll ever be able to go back to the way things once were. Or if he'll want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tap

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based on a quote from Louis Armstrong (" _I don't need words; it's all in the phrasing._ "). Also, the 20's were a different time. I tried to avoid it if it wasn't absolutely necessary, but racism and sexism were fairly common. If it turns up, those views are a reflection of the characters, not me. I don't own any of the characters in real life, unless you see a name you don't recognize and can't find on Wikipedia; those I own. Of the three clubs mentioned throughout the story, only one is based on a real location; "Club Fronton" is an old name for the 21 Club in Manhattan. I couldn't find any pictures or references of what the inside looked like back then, so I used the current look as inspiration and applied a 20's era aesthetic. The Firefly and the Tap are entirely my own invention.
> 
>  **PSA 12/23/2013** : _It's All In the Phrasing_ is now being translated into Russian by [brnstew](http://brnstew.tumblr.com)! Check it out [here](http://ficbook.net/readfic/1514699), and tell your friends!  
>  **PSA 7/12/2014** : And now the boys' story is being translated into Portuguese right here on AO3! Click the link at the top and spread the news!

Dallon pulls out his cigarette case with a soft laugh. “Lucy,” he smirks, quick to light the tip and exhale smoke into the dark room, “you can’t actually believe this baloney.”

“It’s all the rage and kind of fun, don’t you think?” is the response, and he laughs again, sitting back in his chair. His friends are in a circle on the floor, with Ian idly spinning the planchette against the board, Lucy’s ouija board, bought just for tonight. “C’mon, Dallon.”

He shifts, his red satin smoking jacket sliding off his bare shoulder, and he knows that Lucy is trying to impress him; she wouldn’t have invited him into this private room, away from his own party, if she wasn’t. He probably wouldn’t have followed if he hadn’t known. But he sits in the darkness and continues to smoke, knowing she can’t see him but for the glowing tip of his cigarette.

“I’ll just watch for now,” he murmurs after a moment, tilting his head back. With girls, it’s different. The way they behave these days, showing their knees and shoulders, chopping off their hair, you have to pretend you’re not interested. Dallon is very good at not being interested in girls.

At pretending, anyway. He’s pretty sure he’s just pretending.

Lucy pouts with bright red lips, pretty in the candlelight, her short hair curling by her ears, and Ian rolls his eyes before snapping, “Pull your jacket up, Dallon, you’re not impressing anyone.” False, because Lucy is not the only girl in this room, nor is she the only one who keeps glancing at Dallon’s bare shoulder, pale collar. He’s not ashamed; it’s his house, his rules, and his skin gets warm when he drinks.

Dallon meets Lucy’s eyes and shrugs, plucking the cigarette from his lips. “Go on, kitten. Call up some ghosts.” He runs his hand through his hair, smirking slightly. “Show me something nifty.”

She giggles helplessly and tugs the planchette from Ian’s hand, instructing everyone on what she’s read, how to call on spirits and ask them questions, and her eyes keep darting back at Dallon. She’s a pushover for him. They all are, even those young, curious, collegiate boys in the other room. Charming, handsome and rich... Dallon Weekes wants for nothing. Maybe when this game gets boring, he can get everyone else to scram and neck with Lucy for a while. Or, if he’s the only one bored, he doesn’t have to settle for her. There are others, like that blond boy who said he had never been to a house party before. He would be fun too.

But for now, he’ll sit in the dark and watch his friends play this silly game. It’s not as if any of them have anything better to do, tonight or tomorrow night, or even next week. Parties and games and necking. Dallon exhales smoke and smiles.

This is all he really needs.

 

 

\-----

 

“So I got a password for this club-”

“Big surprise,” Ian rolls his eyes again, shaking curls out of his face; pomades and oils have never really been strong enough for Ian’s stubborn hair, especially in this chilly autumn wind. “How do you always manage to stay on top of things like this?”

Dallon shrugs, tugging on the sleeves of his tweed jacket. “It’s an invert club,” he mumbles, and purses his lips when he feels Ian’s eyes on him. “What?”

Ian stops walking and leans against a nearby wall, Dallon mirroring him and shoving his hands in his coat pockets. When they awoke this afternoon, the only two left from last night’s party, Ian had suggested going shopping, get a bit of fresh air to clear their heads. Dallon doesn’t have to work today, and Ian had already slept through all his classes, so why not. Dallon thinks he needs a new pair of driving gloves anyway, and possibly some more hair tonic as well.

Ian is still looking up at him, those big dark eyes, cheeks flushed by the stinging wind. “Dallon,” he says in a steady voice, “Dallon, why would we want to go to some club for nancies. Are you queer? I know-” he begins as Dallon opens his mouth to protest, “I know what you’re going to say. I remember how we met.” They usually don’t speak of it, mainly because of Ian’s lingering embarrassment at how quickly he fell for Dallon’s charms and allowed him to touch his curls and kiss his lips, which tasted like peppermint candy. “I know you like to kiss them sometimes. But that’s different from... from a... from this.”

 

Dallon exhales stubbornly through his nose, lips tight, and he gestures at a nearby door, just somewhere to go inside and escape from this awful wind for a moment. Ian follows, shoulders slumped, and as a bell rings over their heads, Dallon removes his flat cap, places it in his pocket and runs his fingers through his hair. Yes, he definitely needs hair oil; his dark mop isn’t as tame as today’s style demands, and he has none of Ian’s curls to excuse it. “It’s just somewhere new to try, all right?” He murmurs, clapping his hands together to warm them up. “I want to go tonight, before they think to change the password. At the very least, you’ll get to drink something, and I’ll buy, so no complaints.”

And he knows Ian won’t argue with that; the Crawfords are fairly well-to-do, with a family history that dates back to the Revolutionary War, but that doesn’t necessarily stop Ian from wanting to drink for free. The younger boy rolls his eyes again, but nods his consent, and takes a step towards a table stacked with books, picking one up and turning it over in his hands.

Dallon glances around, wrinkling his nose: a bookstore. He can’t remember picking up a book since before his college graduation, and that was three years ago. He’s never really been the comfy, cozy, homey type, that sits at home in front of a fire, having nowhere better to be. If there’s one thing anyone should know about Dallon James Weekes, it’s that he always has somewhere better to be, someone better to be with, and something better to do. Still, it’s cold outside, and his hands feel slightly numb, so he follows Ian’s lead and reaches for the nearest book, sighing as he studies the cover. Some rich couple on an orange background, looking dressed for a party, and the author’s name is somewhat familiar, but Dallon isn’t sure where he’s heard it... probably from Jon, who fancies art and literature with a depth Dallon can’t even summon for his own family. He tightens his jaw, and sets the book back down.

“You don’t like Fitzgerald?”

And when Dallon looks up, coming into this bookshop doesn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. There’s a boy standing next to him, a very handsome boy, balancing a stack of books in one arm, as high as the crest of his head. It’s hard to tell how old he is, with those big eyes and his hair hanging in his face like he’s some schoolboy, but he’s placing his books back on shelves and tables, so Dallon clears his throat. “Never heard of him before. You work here?”

The boy looks dumbfounded. “Never heard of F. Scott Fitzgerald? That book you just set down sold through its first printing in three days!” He kneels to slip another book onto the wooden shelves that line the walls. “I thought every flapper and her daddy read Fitzgerald.”

Dallon is already bored with this line of conversation, so he clears his throat again and pulls out his pocketwatch, solid gold, engraved with his name, a blatant attempt at showing off his wealth and trying to gain the boy’s attention. “Yeah, well, I’m no one’s daddy, so please, tell me, do you work here?”

“Yeah,” the boy stands again, an eyebrow lifting, and truly, this boy’s face is the kind of art that Dallon can’t help admiring. “Is there something I can help you find, then, if Fitzgerald is so _beneath_ you?”

His tone throws Dallon off for a moment; there’s no simpering want or devoted interest in it. It’s so matter-of-fact, it’s almost sarcastic, and Dallon frowns. “I... I suppose I was wondering if you have any books on spirits?” he tries, thinking of Lucy, last night, how she had tried so hard to impress him only to leave him bored and smoking and wandering away to kiss some boy instead. “A friend of mine brought a ouija board to a party recently, and I was thinking-” But the boy still looks completely unimpressed by Dallon’s open mind, so Dallon stops talking and drops his arms. “None at all?” He murmurs after a silent moment.

“We don’t sell occult books here,” the boy answers, his voice soft. “The owner... isn’t fond of superstitions. You’d be better off trying a bigger store.” And this handsome, dark-haired boy with the pretty mouth and thin shoulders, he just watches Dallon for a moment, as Dallon watches back, unsure of what else to say. “... Anything else?”

Dallon tilts his head, then glances around the small store until he spots Ian’s curly head, somewhere near the window. “I suppose not,” and he hopes he doesn’t actually sound that disappointed. Before he can stop himself, he’s smiling brightly, “Awfully cold for September, eh?”

The boy raises an eyebrow, then shrugs. “It’ll only get worse from here,” he comments before turning back to his duties. Dallon blushes hot, and can feel the words on the tip of his tongue, compliments so desperate that he almost violently pulls his cap back on and rushes to grab Ian’s arm, dragging him back outside, and only then does he even open his mouth to breathe.

Ian pulls away, running his hands through his hair like he thinks it’ll do any good. “What was that about?”

“What?”

“Running out of there like that, what the hell did you do?”

“Nothing!” And that’s the problem, but Ian looks like he doesn’t believe him. “I swear, Ian, I didn’t do anything.” He glances over his shoulder through the window of the shop, sees the boy behind the counter, then grabs Ian’s arm again, leading him down the street. “Come on, I need some hair tonic, and I think there’s a Walgreen’s down this way, isn’t there? I think that’s where I bought my last bottle. Isn’t it?”

Ian just stares at him, not even bothering to take his arm back. “What the hell,” he murmurs again, but doesn’t finish his thought, and that’s for the better, because Dallon isn’t sure how to answer. Something in him feels frantic and cowardly and ashamed and his only refuge is that at least he knows better than to enter that bookshop again. Also, they’re going to that club tonight, and there, there at least, he can get his confidence back. He’s twenty-six years old, after all, and there had to be someone somewhere out there who would finally prove immune to his natural charms.

Dallon exhales again and lets go of Ian’s arm as they enter the store. A pair of girls in feathered caps brush past them and giggle sweetly, flirtatiously, and Dallon gives them a toothy smile but still feels shaken. He’s never been so addled, and it was just a boy, some boy at a bookshop, some boy without a name, and Dallon reaches for his flask without thinking, taking a swig right there in the store. He’ll go out tonight and stop worrying about it and never think about that boy ever again. “He wasn’t even _that_ good-looking,” he murmurs to himself, but when Ian glances at him, he shrugs. “Sorry. Come on.”

 

 

\------

 

Ian has been fidgety the whole ride over, and Dallon is ready to kick him. From the time they got back to Dallon’s home that afternoon until they stepped on the streetcar ten minutes ago, Ian was muttering to himself about how stupid and pointless it is to try and go to a queer club. His arguments had ranged from not knowing how to dance with another man (“Who would lead?”) to the paranoid concept that a club like that would be more susceptible to raids. “Not in O’Banion’s territory,” Dallon had said knowingly, like he actually knew anything about the truly seedy Chicago underground, the gangs that supported every speakeasy in town. “Now pipe down and come on.”

They’re almost there, and Dallon stands, pulling his cigarette case out of his trouser pocket. “Ian,” he murmurs as the streetcar slows to a stop, “this is no different from any other club we’ve been to. We’ll just check it out and if it’s no good, we’ll walk down to the Firefly, all right?”

Ian makes a face at him, and adjusts his tie. “So long as nobody gets any ideas about taking me to bed, I should be jake.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Dallon leads the way up the stairs to an old apartment building. He can hear a baby crying somewhere upstairs as he steps inside, some thumping noises in the stairwell, but no music. He approaches the front desk, where a bald man glances up from his book, gives them an up-and-down.

“We’re here for...” Dallon pauses, trying to remember, “Mr. Stan. Can I see Mr. Stan?”

“Out the back,” The man says, lifting his book again. “Next time, dress down a little. Ain’t that kinda neighborhood out here.”

Dallon blushes and thanks the man anyway, heading for the back door, Ian following close behind. “I’m dressed like I always dress for gin joints,” he whispers to Dallon’s back as they step outside once again. “This isn’t some dive, is it?” Dallon only shrugs, but loosens up his own tie, unbuttons his jacket, some pretense at informality, as he heads up the outside stairs of the building across the alley. Now there is a soft pulse, steady, quick and unyielding, he can hear it on the other side of the door as he knocks rapidly. The alley is damp and cold, and he shivers slightly as a window in the door slides open, revealing a dark green eye.

“Password?” comes the gruff voice. This they’ve done before, dozens of times at dozens of clubs around town, and Ian presses closer to Dallon to ensure he’s seen as well.

“Valentino,” Dallon whispers, and the window slams shut just before the door creaks open.

“Welcome to the Tap, gentlemen. Straight through that door.”

They don’t see the doorman, and probably aren’t supposed to, but the pulse is more audible now, more detailed, flourished with piano and a few joyous shouts, and Dallon smiles as he opens the inner door and makes his way inside.

Ian makes a noise of disapproval, and Dallon can only assume that it’s because of the club’s size; they’ve never been to one this small. It’s the entire attic space of this storage building, but there’s hardly room for the bar or the stage, to leave more open for dancing. _Dancing_. Dallon beams, delighted, at the dance floor, filled with people. The men are mostly in street clothes, explaining the comment from the man at the desk, but some of the girls are in pants, their hair cropped short in the flapper fashion but oiled back, not unlike Dallon’s. Some of them would be hard to tell from the men, if it weren’t for the swell of their breasts under vests and suspenders. Ian is watching with the same curiosity as Dallon, before he turns to his friend and comments, “I never thought there would be girls here.”

“They won’t be much interested in you, pal.”

“I know that, but still,” he lets out a low whistle, barely audible over the ragtime pouring out of the piano. “I’ve seen pictures, you know, and some of the fuckbooks, but... but it’s so different to actually see it with my own eyes.”

Dallon laughs softly, and nods his head to the bar. “Drink first?”

“I’ll get a table,” Ian says, unable to take his eyes off a pair of dark-haired girls in pale dresses, dancing nose-to-nose to the slower piece the pianist has moved into. Dallon laughs again and leaves him, heading to the tiny bar. Leaning against the counter, he turns his head back to the dance floor. Some part of him, he knows, is far too excited to be here. Does he enjoy charming drunk college boys into exchanging kisses at house parties? Yes. But Ian was right: actually coming to a queer club, planning to dance with men, is very different.

“What can I get you?”

“Gin and soda,” Dallon says, instinctively switching to a soft tone, though he doesn’t turn away from the dance floor,“and an Old-Fashioned.”

“Kinda overdressed, aren’t you?” the bartender comments, and Dallon laughs.

“First time here. My source failed to mention that the Tap didn’t have a dress code.”

“Yeah, well, some of the sissies here prefer a dapper man,” and Dallon turns around with a smile that drops like a stone.

It’s the boy. The boy from the bookshop is tending the bar at the Tap, and Dallon isn’t entirely sure what that means, but his mouth goes dry as he watches the boy mixing his and Ian’s drinks. He hasn’t looked up yet to see Dallon’s face, so Dallon says nothing, his lips tight, though he’s not sure he can do anything to keep his blue eyes from revealing their shock.

Finally the boy places two large teacups in front of Dallon and gives him a tired smile. “Two dollars.”

Dallon huffs slightly; he hasn’t been recognized, and for some reason, instead of celebrating his reprieve from further embarrassment, he feels affronted. He drops a pair of silver dollars on the counter, which the boy quickly swipes and drops into a drawer and really, Dallon can’t help himself.

“I remember you.”

The boy glances up, an eyebrow raised, that same look from earlier today and how do you forget someone in a few hours? “Thought you said this was your first time?”

“From the bookstore.”

Recognition lifts on the boy’s face like a curtain, and his smile is slightly more genuine now, or so Dallon thinks. “Yeah. You’ve never heard of Fitzgerald. I remember.”

“What’s your name?”

The boy hesitates. “Is this a sting?”

“A what?”

“Are you with the fuzz?”

“Do I look like it?” Dallon frowns; he’s never been asked that before. “Did I look like it earlier?”

“No.” The boy fidgets uncomfortably, then glances down the bar; it’s empty, besides Dallon. Everyone else is dancing, or seated at a table. He murmurs something under the music, and Dallon asks him to repeat himself.

“My name. It’s Brendon.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I’m Dallon.”

“That’s an... unusual name.”

“So’s Brendon.” But Brendon just shrugs, not offering an explanation, or even an opportunity to extend the conversation. Dallon grips his drink and glances back at Ian, who seems to already be losing interest in sapphic entertainment. “Do you get to dance?”

“What?” Brendon seems genuinely surprised by the question, and frankly, Dallon is too. “Not... no, I’m the only guy here.”

“No one’s even drinking right now, come on.”

Brendon frowns and picks up an empty teacup, wiping it down with a rag. “Learn to take no for an answer, pal.”

But Dallon doesn’t. He’s unused to not getting his way, and now that he’s realized he wants to dance with this boy, he refuses to be ignored. He picks up the drinks, and delivers Ian’s to the table, but doesn’t sit down as he drinks his own, tapping his foot and keeping a watchful eye on the bar. The tempo of the music picks up into a tune Dallon vaguely recognizes, and a burly man, still in his workshirt, approaches their table, asking Ian for a dance. Ian flusters for a moment, then shakes his head, but the man takes it in stride, offering his hand to Dallon instead. Dallon sends another quick glance at the bar, then accepts, taking the offered hand.

He’s never actually danced with a real invert before. Maybe once, just after graduation, he danced with a boy, but that boy had a fiance and Dallon doesn’t really remember if anything besides that dance occurred. This is real. This is a man who failed to shave this morning, who smells like sweat and oil, who doesn’t talk much, but has a pretty good sense of rhythm and manages to keep up better than Dallon would have expected him to, considering the song has a bit of rag to it, and Dallon’s always been pretty good at the Charleston. It’s a little exciting, but maybe that’s just the newness of it, the rebellion, because he turns his head away when the man leans in for a kiss.

Normally he likes kissing men, but there’s something so much more _final_ about it when the man he could be kissing is actually queer. So much more _real_.

Dallon sits down next to Ian once the dance is over, and the silence is long and awkward. Ian glances at him, almost imperceptibly, and seems anxious again. Dallon clears his throat.

“Another drink?”

Ian hesitates. “... yeah. But. Maybe, after that... we should scram. Go to the Firefly.” He shifts in his seat. “All right?”

Brendon is still standing behind the bar, looking bored, so Dallon doesn’t respond to Ian, instead approaching the bar and resting his chin in his hands. Brendon eyes him warily.

“Gin and soda... right?”

“And an Old Fashioned.” He watches Brendon pull out two more teacups. “Why won’t you dance with me?”

“You seemed to be having fun with the other punk,” Brendon shrugs, “so I figure you’re just here to see what you can get. That’s jake. Half the cats in here are married! Most of the girls too.” He drops the cups in front of Dallon, who stands up straight. “But I’m here to work, not to dance.”

“You’re not queer?” Dallon swallows, then gives up what he hopes is a charming smile. Somehow, that thought makes it a little easier to breathe. “I thought everyone who worked at a queer joint would be, well... queer.”

Brendon looks unamused. “That’s not what I said.”

And Dallon’s throat tightens again. “Oh.” He reaches for the teacups. “Sorry. I... I guess it’s kind of overwhelming. Isn’t it?” He swallows, then tries to smile again. “Being around... others.”

“Others?” Brendon raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “Look, pal, you’re having a laugh with your friend, that’s all. I get college kids like you in here every night, thinking they’re funny, or that they’re beating the system, doing something that would make their parents weep if they heard, but they don’t belong here. _You_ don’t belong here. So go home, Dallon. You’re just a boy playing a game.”

No one has ever spoken to Dallon that way, not in twenty-six years, not his parents or his brothers, even teachers tended to overlook his behavior, and he stands at the bar, shoulders slumped, mouth open, cheeks burning. Because Brendon is right, but he’s _wrong_ at the same time, and Dallon isn’t quite sure how to explain the way his head works and why he wanted to come here, and he’s even less sure of how much Brendon would care.

After a moment, Brendon looks up from wiping down teacups, and gives him an odd look, his lips twitching. Dallon feels his face burn hotter as he turns away and adjusts his collar. “What?”

“You’re not bad to look at, is all. Our loss.”

Dallon glances at him, then smiles slightly. “Just one dance, Brendon. That’s all I’m asking.”

At first Brendon shakes his head, but then he looks over his shoulder at the clock behind the bar. “I’m off in twenty. One dance.”

Ian is overly irritated and impatient when Dallon finally brings their drinks back, and that irritation is only amplified by the victorious grin that sits on Dallon’s face. “Christ!” And Ian only swears when it’s late and he’s either drunk or not drunk enough, “Jesus, Dallon, what the hell took so long? Were you flirting? Damn, Dallon, coming here was a bad idea, it’s bad enough what you do at parties, but coming to an actual nancy club, Jesus Christ.”

“Ian. Drink.” Dallon refuses to let his mood be dampened. “Then you can scram, if you want, but I’m staying a little longer.”

“Dallon,” Ian tilts his drink back, downing it almost all at once, “if I’d known you’d take this thing so seriously, I wouldn’t have come. I thought maybe we’d watch some pansies dance with each other, laugh a little, have a few drinks, then head off for the Firefly.” He finishes his drink, and looks at Dallon, brows furrowed. “I never thought you’d join them, however much you enjoy kissing.”

Dallon shrugs, not looking at Ian, taking his drink much slower. “It’s fun,” he says, leaning forward to check the time, “and I happen to be a little keen on that bartender over there.”

“‘ _Keen_?’” Ian repeats in disbelief. “Dallon, what’s gotten into you?”

“Not sure.” Dallon sips at his drink again. Ian just stares. “But I’ve enjoyed myself here.” He grins, possibly his most genuine smile of the night, as he watches another young man slip behind the bar, exchanging pleasantries with Brendon. “I might come back.”

Ian follows Dallon’s gaze, and sighs. “Can we just pretend I don’t know all this?”

Dallon finishes his drink before standing, straightening out his suit. “Whatever makes you happy, pal, but now I gotta see a man about a dance. Staying or going?”

“Going,” Ian answers without hesitation, “and I’ll be at the Firefly until they throw me out, if you want to find me.”

Dallon nods, shakes Ian’s hand, and turns without another word. Brendon is hanging his apron up behind the bar, but as he comes around the front, he raises that eyebrow at Dallon.

“Still around?”

“You owe me a dance.”

“Thought you might run away like that friend of yours.” Brendon turns towards the stage, where a trumpet player is stepping up to the front of the stage, and the drum-kit picks out a different beat, somewhat slower, and _oh_. “Do you like the tango?”

Dallon really isn’t sure what happened to him today. Last night, he was flirting with Lucy, smoking his cigarettes, all eyes on him in his brightly lit townhouse at his party, as he charmed his way through an evening that ended with a lingering kiss from a shy, curious boy. And he was drunk, and slept most of the day, and his life was perfect. Carefree. But tonight he’s standing here on the edge of the dance floor at a tiny, rundown speakeasy, looking at a different boy who is looking expectantly back, and he’s so conscious of his own movements that he’s not sure he can trust himself to move without stumbling. Is he shaking? Oh God, he’s so embarrassed, and Brendon is grinning at him, laughing slightly, and why? Why is that? Dallon hasn’t even done anything, he’s hardly moved, frozen still as his heartbeat picks up the slow-slow-quick-quick-slow rhythm of the piano.

"Dallon,” Brendon says, reaching for his hand, “you do know how to tango don’t you?”

“Um,” Dallon never stutters, “yes. I. I’ve done it before. A few times.”

“Then why are you flushed?” Brendon’s eyes are crinkled like he’s enjoying some secret joke. Dallon wishes it wasn’t at his own expense.

“I’ve just... never danced like that with a man before.”

“You danced with a man earlier tonight.”

“But that was... fast dancing. There wasn’t a lot of touching and. It was different.”

Brendon makes a face. “Are you sure you even want to dance with me? I get the feeling you’re just... I’m not a toy to be played with, Dallon.”

“I never said that! _Jiminy_ Cricket, Brendon, you keep putting words in my mouth-”

“Because you keep hesitating!”

“I’ve never done this before!” Dallon glances at the dance floor again and chews on his lower lip. “All right. Let’s just. Can I lead? I only know how to lead.”

Brendon’s lips are tight, his forehead flushed red, but he exhales quickly and nods before reaching to put his hand on the back of Dallon’s neck, and Dallon forgets what he’s supposed to do for a brief moment. Then he blushes and places his hand on Brendon’s waist, their free hands clasping as they circle onto the main floor.

Everyone else seems to be much more keen on their partner than Dallon is. These women pinned up in slacks with rouged cheeks pressed together, men in suspenders with hands tightly clasped, and Dallon feels so strange, dancing so close to another man. But it’s not bad. No, it’s not even that different from how he might dance with a girl, though he’s slightly distracted by Brendon’s flat chest and stomach. And his hands are bigger, as well. And maybe it takes a moment for Dallon to figure out how to compensate for Brendon’s slightly larger feet. But it’s not that different, after all. Nothing to be anxious about.

Except that this is nice, and Brendon’s handsome, and Dallon probably shouldn’t enjoy this on any level. That thought lingers in the back of his head, but he ignores it. Brendon was right. So far his flirtation with boys has been a game, a way to pass the time and be neither bored nor boring. But this dance, their stomachs pressed together and legs moving in time, Brendon looking up at him with those large brown eyes, this dance is different.

Dallon wants to kiss him. _Really_ kiss him. Not in that bored, indifferent way that he usually wants to kiss, well, anyone. Where the only service it provides is to make him feel wanted. No, he wants to kiss Brendon because he wants to know what it’s like to kiss _Brendon_ , and his hand slides to the small of Brendon’s back, pulling him closer. Brendon raises an eyebrow, looking confused, and Dallon leans in, closes his eyes.

But at the last moment, Brendon turns his head, so their cheeks press together, and Dallon can’t tell which of them is blushing. Maybe both.

“This isn’t uncomfortable to you?” Brendon mumbles, “I know I’m kinda short. And you’re pretty tall.”

“I didn’t even...” Dallon swallows, “I didn’t even think of that. I was thinking about how strange it is that... that I can feel your beard coming in.”

And he didn’t mean it to be funny, but Brendon laughs, and the hand on Dallon’s neck shifts, as if to keep him in place.

There will be no kissing tonight.

 

  
**(art by[samanthaangel](http://samanthaangel.tumblr.com)!)**


	2. Playing Fair

“Dallon, you’ve lost your mind.”

“Shut your trap, Ian. Here,” Dallon digs around in his coat pocket until he finds his cigarette case, offering one to his curly-haired friend. “have one of these and just wait for me. I’m just gonna get a slant, then-”

“No!” Ian takes a cigarette anyway, using his own lighter. “This is insanity. I should call someone to get you locked up. You can get locked up for this, you know!”

“For what?”

Ian answers in a hushed voice as a woman and her two children wander past: “Sodomy.”

Dallon laughs. “This is hardly sodomy, Ian,” he answers smoothly, glancing over his shoulder at the bookstore across the street. He’s not exactly ashamed of how he tricked Ian into coming back down here, claiming that all of Jon and Cassie’s grand speeches had finally sparked a flame for literature in his heart, and he wanted to purchase something by Fitzgerald. Ian, by now used to humoring Dallon’s flights of fancy, probably wouldn’t have known any different if Brendon hadn’t been smoking a cigarette outside as they approached, and Dallon hadn’t frozen up at the sight of him.

Ian is frowning hard, cigarette smoldering between two fingers. “You can still get locked up for it. You’re my friend, and I don’t want some... nancy boy to bring you down. It’s not funny!” he argues when Dallon starts to laugh. “What if someone sees you?”

“Sees me doing what? Talking to someone? Jiminy Cricket, Ian, we do illegal things on a regular basis! This is hardly worse than, I dunno, smoking reefer after a shot of gin.”

Ian gives him a confused look, eyes narrow, then he turns away, sucking on his cigarette. “Except it is, Dallon. That’s what I don’t think you understand.”

“I just want to talk to him.”

Ian shrugs, still not looking at him. “I’ll wait.”

Dallon breaks out into a grin, and claps his friend on the shoulder. “Thanks, pal. I’ll be back soon.” When Ian only shrugs again, Dallon turns and crosses the street. Brendon must have gone back inside, so Dallon follows suit, the bell jingling over his head.

The bookstore is just as small and dusty as it was a few days ago. It’s such a tiny little thing that Dallon starts to wonder if there’s a speakeasy out back; that’s not unusual these days. He calls out a greeting when he realizes the store is empty, and hears a muffled response from the back room. Brendon stumbles out, chewing on something and wiping his hands on his shirt.

“Yeah, can I- ...oh.” Brendon stares at Dallon for a moment, then swallows, eyes quickly darting towards the back room. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi,” Dallon responds, stepping forward, smiling eagerly. “Hi, hello, how are you?”

“Everything’s jake,” Brendon answers, looking almost nervous. “What can I help you with today?”

"I... Well, I figured. If this Fitzgerald cat is such a huge deal, then maybe I should check it out after all."

Brendon fidgets, then smiles slightly. "Oh. Well. Let’s see if I can find that copy of _This Side of Paradise_ you had the other day.”

Dallon shoves his hands in his coat pockets and follows Brendon to a display on the other side of the shop. It seems to be a system of organized chaos, because nothing is alphabetized anywhere, on any of the shelves or tables, but Brendon seems to know exactly what he’s looking for, as he falls to his knees and digs through a pile of old books underneath the display. When he reappears, there’s dust on his shoulders, and Dallon tilts his head as Brendon hands him a pair of books with tattered covers.

“There. _This Side of Paradise_ , and _The Beautiful and Damned_. If you actually read them, you’ll probably relate to them pretty well. They’re all about high society people. In New York rather than Chicago, but from what I can tell, there’s not a lot of difference between the two.”

“Actually, there is,” Dallon says shortly, and Brendon raises that eyebrow as Dallon clutches the books, decides he won’t actually read them after all. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

Brendon tenses visibly. “What.”

“What nights do you work... your other job?”

Brendon’s eyes dart towards the backdoor, and he answers through gritted teeth, “ _What_ other job, Dallon.”

And Dallon knows. Caution needs to be exercised. Moonlighting is one thing, doing it at an illegal club is something else entirely. So he’s not sure what it is that makes him step forward, lean in close to Brendon’s ear, because even if they’re whispering, why would they need to whisper? They’re behaving suspiciously, and Dallon knows it, but he does it anyway. “At the Tap,” he murmurs into Brendon’s ear, even as the smaller boy pulls away.

“ _Dallon_ ,” he hisses insistently, “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Are you going to buy those or not?”

“Sure,” Dallon smiles, following Brendon to the counter. “Just give me a night where I could maybe go see you. Name a day. That’s all I want.”

Brendon presses the buttons with a vengeance, keeping the books close to his chest. “I liked you better the other night,” he murmurs, almost absently. Dallon shifts his shoulders, taken aback.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Brendon.” Brendon finally sets the books down, leans against the countertop, not looking at Dallon. “Spill.”

“The other night. At... you know,” his eyes dart to the backroom again, where a light is still glowing through the crack in the doorway, “you were... confused. I don’t know. Sweeter, maybe. Just. You’re playing your game right now, and I already told you, I’m not a toy.”

Dallon frowns, unsure of what to say. Obviously Brendon doesn’t realize what a unique situation this is: Dallon Weekes doesn’t seek people out. People come to him, and he’ll do with them as he pleases before sending them on their way, maybe keeping them around as a friend if they’re amusing, but never more than that. He came back to this bookshop to find Brendon, to make it easier to find him again at the Tap, somewhere where he might be able to actually get to know this boy, because he wants to. He hasn’t even really deduced why he wants to, but sometimes just wanting to is reason enough. “Brendon, you’re not being fair.”

“Life’s not fair, but I wouldn’t expect some spoiled rich kid like you to understand that.” And that’s just not true, but Dallon doesn’t get the chance to protest; from behind him, the backroom, someone calls Brendon’s name, and the smaller boy freezes, curses under his breath, “Shit. _Shit_ , all right. Look, the books are a half each, you want them or not?”

Dallon eyes him, then pulls a dollar coin from his pocket, drops it on the counter. “Brendon, just-”

“Not now. Just... scram, yeah?”

Dallon takes his books, unsure of what’s going on, but he nods anyway. “Thanks, I guess.”

But Brendon ignores him, moving out from behind the counter and back to the backroom, shoulders tight. Dallon watches him leave, then turns back to the door, the bell ringing out his departure. He stands at the foot of the steps until he sees Ian, still standing across the street like he promised, and Dallon crooks a finger to beckon him over.

“I thought you were just going to talk to him,” Ian comments as he steps onto the curb, gesturing at the books, “gimme another gasper.”

Dallon opens his jacket, tucks the books in the inside pocket, then digs out his cigarette case, passing one to Ian before lighting one between his own lips. “Eh. He said they were good, so I thought, ‘why not.’”

Ian shrugs. “And that’s all? No...” he waves his hands around as he searches for the right word, creating shapes with smoke from the smoldering end of his cigarette, “no grand, romantic kiss or declarations of love?”

“Jiminy, Ian,” Dallon laughs, “where did I say that? I told you. I wanted to talk to him. That’s it.” And the talk didn’t go quite as well as he’d hoped, but that really had been all he’d planned. To talk. To see what else he could find out about the boy he couldn’t stop thinking about. He exhales smoke into the chilly air and leans against the side of the building. “So are you supporting this fiasco now?”

“I support all your fiascos, whether I like it or not,” Ian mutters, shaking curls out of his eyes. “Can we go now, though? William said he might host a bonfire tonight, but only if you or Jon could get a hold of some reefer.”

Dallon makes a face. “Jon has an easier time with that than I do. Besides, I have to be at work in an hour anyway.”

Ian looks ready to argue, but stops himself, turning his head when a bell rings behind him. Brendon storms out of the bookshop, pulling his jacket on and muttering to himself. Dallon smiles without really knowing why, and calls Brendon’s name. “Hi! Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving so soon?”

Brendon turns towards him, forehead flushed and eyes narrow, and Dallon steps back, flattens himself against the wall, as Brendon approaches him with clenched fists.

“God, if you weren’t so tall I’d punch you in your fucking mug,” Brendon snaps, and Dallon releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, just in time for Brendon’s fist to make contact with his stomach. Pain starts to pulse just under his navel, and he doubles over, gasping slightly.

“What the hell, Brendon?” he manages to say after a moment. Ian has taken a few steps back, looking nervous as Dallon starts to stand up again, but Brendon stays where he is, still glaring fiercely.

“You fucking got me fired. I _needed_ that job, and you... you!” Brendon brings his hands up again and Dallon flinches, recoils. “You walk in there and strike up a conversation about the Tap like there’s no such thing as _laws_ , you step too close like you don’t know the rules, the way _normal_ people behave! And then I finally lose my temper, and my boss sees that too. Fuck you, Dallon. Not everyone lives in your untouchable society bubble.”

Once again, Brendon has proven himself to be braver than anyone else Dallon has known. He has no problem telling Dallon where he stands, where they stand, or what Dallon may be doing wrong. And Dallon stares at him, feels a flush rise in his neck and up his cheeks, and he has to fight to keep from smiling despite the pain in his stomach. “Jiminy Cricket,” he murmurs, unsure if he’s responding to Brendon’s misfortune, or his own delight at Brendon’s untempered fervor.

But Brendon is nowhere near happy, especially at Dallon’s lack of empathy. The smaller boy makes an animalistic noise of fury, throws his hands in the air, and starts to walk away. Dallon, his abs still aching and tender, steps away from the wall and stares after Brendon for a moment. Something else is swirling in his stomach, something unpleasant, and he turns back to Ian, who is watching him expectantly.

“I have to go,” Dallon says, and Ian shakes his head, snuffs his cigarette under his toe.

“All right,” Ian answers stiffly, adjusting his jacket. “If you’re not at Will’s tonight, meet me tomorrow after class.”

Dallon’s not sure why Ian thinks he wouldn’t be at William’s tonight, but he nods his agreement before taking off in a run after Brendon. He shouldn’t have let him get so far ahead, should have taken off sooner, but the boy’s strained posture is easy to pick out, and luckily he’s stayed on the same street. When Dallon gets closer, he slows down, now afraid that if he surprises Brendon, he’ll just get another punch in the gut, and he’d really rather avoid that. Instead, he stays back a few feet, keeping an eye on Brendon, who seems to be talking to himself, probably still swearing, judging from the scandalized looks women are throwing his way. Finally, Brendon turns a corner, onto a less populated street. His shoulders are still tense, his steps still loud, but Dallon skips closer anyway, though he tries to stay further than arms length away.

“Brendon?”

The sound makes Brendon jump and whirl around, and his expression switches from surprise, to fury, then back to shock. “What the hell are you doing here.”

Dallon actually doesn’t know; that strange, insistent feeling in his belly had prompted him to follow Brendon. So he shrugs awkwardly, puts his hands in his jacket pockets. Brendon’s face promptly shutters closed, glaring again.

“You’re so... crazy!” Brendon snaps, throwing his arms in the air again. “You’re absolutely _goofy_ , and I don’t understand you! Stop following me! Go home! Or I’ll sock you again!”

Dallon starts to shrink back, but catches himself. “I just...” He pauses, thinking, and Brendon crosses his arms over his chest. “I guess I just feel bad. Maybe. Though you have another job, so I don’t know why you needed the bookst-” Brendon’s derisive laugh cuts him off, “What?”

“You think the Tap pays well?” Brendon shakes his head in disbelief and turns around to start walking again. “I wish I lived in your world, Dallon.”

Dallon isn’t sure what he means by that, but he starts following anyway, summoning up the courage to walk closer. “You mean it doesn’t pay well? It’s the only queer club in town, it has to have a decent clientele.”

“Could you not _say_ that so loud?” Brendon snaps, shaking his head again. “Jesus Christ, Dallon. I swear, you must live in some really beautiful little bubble. Talking about queer clubs like you’ve never gotten bruises for it, expecting money to magically flow into everyone’s pockets. Jesus,” he swears again, softer this time, less angry, “the world must be breathtaking through your eyes.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” Brendon sighs, “You actually do have money flowing into your pockets. You get everything you ever wanted, without asking, and you’ve never had to work for it.”

“I have a job!” Dallon flusters, pouting slightly, and Brendon glances at him. “I do! I work at the movie theater near the university.”

Brendon looks unconvinced, tugging his jacket tighter around his chest. “Does it pay your bills well, then?”

“Um.” Truth be told, Dallon never really paid attention to how much he earned. It was a way to pass the time, now that he was no longer in school and all of his friends still were. He needed something to do after waking up hungover, and before getting ready for the next party. “I. Well.” Brendon watches him expectantly, even stops walking to wait, to give Dallon time to think. “Uh. I suppose... my father owns the house I live in. And. He sends money for food and clothes...”

“Hm,” Brendon says, raising that one eyebrow that, Dallon has already noticed, tends to mean he’s holding something back. “That’s what I thought.”

“But I do work!”

“You work, but you don’t work to _survive_!” Brendon argues, forehead flushed pink. He lowers his voice: “The Tap doesn’t actually have a very good clientele, and what they do have are usually on the lower side of middle class, if not actually lower class. Most of the money made goes straight to the North Side Gang, to keep us well-stocked, or the cop on our beat, to help him turn a blind eye. Most of what’s left is split between the owners and the band. Me and the other guy behind the bar? Next to nothing. The only requirement for our jobs is an ability to keep our mouths shut. That’s not worth a lot, when everyone and their grandmother has figured out how to get drunk without the bulls catching on."

Dallon blinks and straightens his shoulders uncomfortably, finally glancing at their surroundings. This is a part of Chicago he’s not familiar with: lots of shabby apartment buildings, and a drug store with bars on the windows. Across the street, a black woman, with a viciously sobbing baby on her hip, is watching them suspiciously from the stairwell. Dallon’s immaculate jacket, silk scarf, patterned knickers and pristine socks stand out here. It all stands out next to Brendon, he now notices, who is wearing worn trousers, worn shoes, and a jacket that probably actually stopped doing its job several years ago. Dallon swallows. “Oh.”

"The bookstore wasn't much better. Mr. Weathers was very particular about what he wanted to sell. It was his own hobby, not a way to make money." Brendon makes a face, shivers slightly. "You were right, by the way?"

"About what?"

"It is cold for September."

And Dallon is suddenly overwhelmed with helpless, anxious guilt. "You live here, don't you."

Brendon turns and points down the street. "Around that corner." He huffs slightly. "Not for much longer though, without that second job."

"Jiminy Cricket," Dallon breathes, unsure of what else to say. He is well aware that he lives a charmed life-- he takes too much advantage of it not to be. But when he met Brendon, for some reason, it had simply never occurred to him that a boy who worked two jobs would do so just to keep his head above water. Especially a boy like Brendon, handsome and determined, and Dallon stops that train of thought right there. “Well. I mean. I guess since I don’t need my job, if you want it...”

Brendon’s eyebrow raises. “What?”

“I could quit my job, so you could take it. If you want.” Dallon shrugs, then scratches the back of his neck, turning his gaze away from Brendon. “I mean, you’re right, really. I don’t work to survive. I don’t think anyone should have to, because then, really, when you spend all your time surviving, when do you _live_? But...” he swallows, “I guess that’s beside the point.”

He can feel Brendon’s eyes on him, and a flush starts to rise in his neck. Brendon exhales slowly. “Does it hurt? Where I hit you?”

Dallon laughs slightly. “Right now, it’s fine. It’ll be tender for a while though.” He turns to see Brendon smiling at him. “So what about the job? By now I’ll be late anyway, so they’ll probably just fire me.”

Brendon shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. I guess... I’m thinking of taking the opportunity to find a better job.” He pauses, shuffles his feet. “Something more musical.”

“Are you a musician?” Something about that idea makes Dallon’s heart flutter. “What do you play?”

“These days, all I have is my... a ukulele. But I was pretty swell at piano as a kid. Just haven’t had the chance to practice since I moved here.” Brendon shrugs, blushes. “I miss it, a little.”

“I play piano,” Dallon interjects, smiling. “Or, well, I’m still learning. Or, maybe I just kind of fool around on the baby grand at home.” Brendon laughs. “You’re probably much more talented than I am.”

Brendon shrugs again, but looks pleased. “I. Well. Do you want to come up? I could at least play ukulele for you. And... And I kinda glommed some whiskey off the shipment the other day. We could split the bottle.”

“You’re not going to sock me again, are you?” Dallon has to ask, though he catches himself fighting a grin. “When I sit down, it’ll be a little easier for you to reach my face.”

But Brendon laughs and shakes his head. “Come on.” He leads the way to the next corner, Dallon following just behind, then makes his way up a set of rickety stairs, giving a quick hello to the elderly black woman sitting just outside the door on the second floor. Dallon stays quiet, still somewhat overwhelmed by this setting, with Brendon living in such a tiny building, a place that smells so wet and has clotheslines to combat the clouds in the sky.

The actual apartment isn’t much better. One room, one window, a creaky door, and almost no furniture. There’s a wooden tub in one corner, an armchair with the backing ripped in the opposite, and a wood-burning stove pressed to the wall. A draft breezes through the thin walls, making Dallon long for the fireplace in his bedroom back home, feather pillows and his grandmother’s quilt, but Brendon just tugs his jacket around his neck and smiles. Like he’s used to it. “I’ll get my ukulele. I put the whiskey in the stove, if you’ll get it?”

Dallon does as he’s asked, pulling the bottle from the stove and setting it aside on the floor. There’s wood inside as well, dry and waiting, so Dallon reaches for his lighter, to try and get some warmth in this little room.

“No!” Brendon’s shoes pound on the floor as he rushes over, grabs Dallon’s wrist, and someone downstairs starts to yell about the noise. “No, no, I have to save that for winter!”

Dallon glances at him incredulously. “This isn’t enough wood to last all winter! It’ll barely last a night!”

“I know!” Brendon snaps stubbornly, but doesn’t argue. His cheeks are flushed, and Dallon isn’t sure if it’s from the cold, or embarrassment, that he’s remembered how far apart their stations are.

“I can replace it,” Dallon offers, and Brendon’s mouth twitches into a hard frown, so Dallon clarifies: “I’m not offering to supply you with free wood all winter, I’m saying I’ll replace what I use.”

Brendon still doesn’t look happy, but he flops down next to the stove and sets his instrument down before reaching under the stove for a matchbox. “Here, then. Don’t burn your arm up.”

While the fire grows, they pass the bottle back and forth between them, which not only helps warm their skin, but also helps Dallon forget the nagging, throbbing ache in his abdomen, worse now that he’s sitting down and the wound has had time to blossom. Brendon keeps apologizing for his actions, but as the bottle gets close to half-empty, his eyes start to sparkle with amusement, mainly because now the whole thing just seems funny.

“Are you going to play for me or not?” Dallon asks finally, passing the bottle back to Brendon. It’s been an hour, he’s well overdue for work, and they’re both leaning towards drunk. Brendon giggles slightly, takes a drink.

“I’m not sure how good I’d be now,” and there’s an accent to his words that Dallon can’t quite place, “my fingers always go numb first.”

“Try,” Dallon encourages as Brendon takes another drink and sets the bottle aside. “I like a little music while I drink.”

Brendon gives him a look, smirking slightly, but he picks the ukulele up and rests it against his chest, strums a few chords, then leads into the melody of ‘[Limehouse Blues](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvFqN7uVP3g&feature=fvwrel).’ Dallon recognizes the piece; it’s still popular at dance clubs, late at night when every one needs a little more pep from the band to keep dancing. And Brendon’s good, never missing a lick, even with quite a bit of liquor in his blood.

Dallon leans over to take the bottle, takes a long drink, and leans against the wall with his eyes closed. His skin is warmed just enough, his head swimming but not enough to completely disable him. The time he’s spent in Chicago, both in school and out of it, have helped him learn his limits, though that never stops him from challenging them from time to time. But an idea is forming in his head, especially as Brendon slows his playing slightly, changes to a different song that Dallon’s never heard before.

And Brendon starts to sing.

It’s soft at first, and Dallon isn’t quite sure what he’s hearing until he opens his eyes to confirm that Brendon’s mouth is indeed moving. The melody is sweeter than the jazz Dallon is used to hearing, and Brendon’s voice, stronger with every note, easier to hear, is smoother than most of the popular crooners. It’s different. Unique. He makes it seem easy. And Dallon just watches and listens.

“ _We’re splashin’ around, and the news spread all over town..._ ” Brendon almost hums, then stops himself, keeps his eyes lowered. Dallon sits upright, tilting his head.

“Why did you stop?”

“That’s all I’ve got, so far,” Brendon murmurs.

“All you’ve... you wrote that?” Brendon lifts one shoulder in a shrug, then smiles slightly and leans over to steal the whiskey bottle back. Dallon just stares, surprised. “ _Jiminy_ Cricket.”

“That bad?”

“Jiminy _Cricket_!” Dallon says again, feeling himself smile back at Brendon’s abashed face. “Brendon, that was great!” He pauses, can’t stop himself in his drunken excitement, and adds, “You’re the bee’s knees!”

Brendon blushes, dark and unmistakable. “Aw, go on.”

“I’m being serious. Dead serious. Hey, here’s a fun idea,” he nudges Brendon’s knee with his shoe, grinning like the cat that cornered the canary, “why don’t you play my party?”

“What party?”

“I don’t know, I’m always throwing some party some time. I don’t always know about them until they happen. But you should play for one!”

Brendon laughs and takes a drink before setting his instrument aside. “I dunno, I haven’t performed since I moved to Chicago...”

“All the more reason to try it out among friends.”

“ _Your_ friends.”

“Nuance. Still friends.” Dallon is still grinning, and after a moment, Brendon starts to hesitantly offer one in return. “You can use the piano too, if you prefer. I’ll even pay you.”

“You don’t have to do _that_ -”

“Horsefeathers! A man should get paid for his art!”

Brendon watches him skeptically, even as he raises the bottle to his lips once again. “I don’t know,” he murmurs after a drink, “I haven’t played piano in two years.”

“I don’t think it’s something you just... forget how to do,” Dallon responds, leaning over to take the bottle back, “is it?”

“No,” Brendon answers after a moment’s consideration, “no, I could probably still play piano in my sleep.”

“Then say yes. In a week?” Dallon takes a long drink, then slides the bottle across the floor towards Brendon, who misses, but they’ve drunk enough by now that when the bottle topples, nothing spills onto the floor. “Give me a week. I’ll throw a big party at my place and you can be my special entertainment and everyone will just be wild for you.”

Brendon watches Dallon for a moment, before a slow smile spreads over his face. “Where is your place?”

“We can go right now!” Dallon says eagerly, standing and wobbling slightly with a laugh. “We can catch the streetcar and you can try my piano before the party!”

“We have to catch the streetcar?” Brendon stands as well, leans against the wall for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “I have to be at the Tap tonight, so it can’t be too far-”

“On the streetcar, it’s not.” Dallon starts for the door, a hand pressed to the wall. “Come on. I gave up my job for you,” he teases with a smile as Brendon approaches him hesitantly. “Just come see the place, then be back in a week. For my party. Where I’ll pay you. Handsomely.”

Brendon pauses, his hand still on the wall, his forearm brushing Dallon’s bicep, bringing to Dallon’s attention just how close they are. His breath hitches slightly, and he gives Brendon a curious glance, Brendon, who is watching him from the corner of his eye as he chews on his lower lip. They’re drunk, and maybe it’s just that, but Brendon’s lips seem so pink and inviting right now, and Dallon is far more focused on Brendon’s lips than he should be. This time they’re alone, hidden away in Brendon’s ratty little room that he calls home, and Dallon leans over, gets close enough to smell the liquor on Brendon’s breath-

But again, Brendon pulls away at the last second, and Dallon’s lips brush his flushed cheek instead as Brendon allows a small huff of a laugh.

“You think I’m the kind of boy that’d kiss the palooka that got me fired?” But there’s amusement in his voice, a gentle teasing, and Dallon pulls away with a shy smile, one hand absently resting on his bruised abdomen. Brendon is smiling back, even as he moves away from Dallon, leading the way, though he pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

“Tell you what.”

Dallon’s listening.

“I’ll play your party. And. I’ll go to the theater tomorrow. If I get that job... you’ll get your kiss.” Brendon turns to look at him again, round brown eyes aglow. “Sound fair?”

Dallon breathes. Grins helplessly. “Fair enough.”


	3. Queer Affection

It’s late. He’s late.

Dallon opens his pocketwatch again, makes a worried noise around his cigarette, and starts pacing by the foyer entrance. The party is running itself without him, as they tend to do; all his friends are here, dressed in their best, the radio holding strong as Brendon’s last-minute replacement. And maybe, maybe Dallon wouldn’t be so concerned about his no-show... friend? entertainment? no, maybe friend works best... if Ian hadn’t approached him yesterday to tell him about the violence that’s been occurring at the Tap over the past couple days.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know,” Ian had commented unnecessarily, as if he’d assumed Dallon was down there every night.

“Do you know why? What’s happening?”

Ian had only shrugged, though he looked confused by Dallon’s anxiety. “I only even knew it was the Tap because of the location. People think it’s the bulls cracking down, but I don’t think it’s _shut_ down, so I can’t say.”

Dallon hasn’t seen Brendon since last week, so he can’t say either.

He checks his pocketwatch yet again. Exhales smoke. Briefly wonders why he’s so anxious when no one seems to mind the lack of live music. Then starts to worry again.

Jon approaches after a moment, grinning widely and carrying a glass of what could be vodka but, knowing Jon, is probably actually water. He calls Dallon’s name and claps him on the shoulder. “Why do you look so upset? Everyone I’ve talked to is happy and drunk, so why don’t you calm down and go have a drink or two yourself?”

Funny thing, that. Dallon’s pretty sure he’s already drunk, since his always-full flask of gin is nearly empty, though he doesn’t feel relaxed, or warm, or lazy like he normally does, nor have his hands and eyes started to wander. Lucy’s here; she came to say hello, gave him a kiss, but he sent her away. She had seemed offended by his tone, but in Dallon’s defense, he was worried; Brendon was already an hour late.

Jon watches him for a moment, then sighs and offers Dallon his glass. It is water, and for some reason that does help Dallon lose some of the tension in his shoulder, so he offers a quick thank you that Jon waves away.

“You’ve been pacing over here by yourself the whole time I’ve been here. Spill it.”

“Spill what?” Dallon responds, trying to look innocent. “I hired a piano player for the evening, and he hasn’t arrived yet.”

“And?” When Dallon doesn’t continue, Jon looks confused. “The radio’s going. Frankly, I think people would make their own music to dance to, if need be. I could play piano for you, if you’re so set on it.”

“I was set on _him_ playing it,” Dallon argues childishly. Jon raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Dallon’s pretty sure Jon’s never caught him in his more secret flirtations, but he’s also well aware that behaving the way he does can cause rumors to flourish, rumors that Jon may have heard.

After a moment's silence, Jon shrugs. "Well. Then who are we looking for? I can keep an eye out so you can enjoy the party for a moment."

"You've never met him."

"Then what does he look like?"

Dallon pauses to think about it, to allow himself a filter so Jon won't become too aware of the truth. "He's short. Smaller than you," he specifies when Jon laughs; a lot of people are short compared to Dallon. "His hair's really dark, almost black, and I've never seen him slick it back so it's probably loose." This makes Jon raise an eyebrow; these upperclass boys are all part of what the papers call "The Flaming Youth," sporting young men with raccoon coats, and hair slicked flat on their heads. For Dallon to know someone who would so regularly defy such a popular trend is unusual. "Dark eyes. Big, all his features are kinda big, I guess."

Jon glances out at the crowd of kids in Dallon's living room. "And you're sure he's not already here?"

"I've been here by the door waiting for him all night!"

Before Jon can respond, there's a knock at the door. Both men hear it, and step towards the foyer to watch as the butler answers, and Dallon breathes a sigh of relief as Brendon stumbles in the door. He's under-dressed, very much so, in his black knickers and red shirt, and Jon gets this look on his face that suggests he's surprised that the butler would let such riffraff inside the house. Dallon steps forward anyway, unable to keep himself from beaming.

“You made it! What took you so long?”

Brendon shrugs with his ukulele slung over his shoulder, glances around nervously; even last week, while Dallon was cheerfully, drunkenly, giving him the grand tour, he had seemed cautious and afraid, as if the whole house were made of fragile glass. “I, um... I had to work. Sorry.”

“Work?” Dallon lowers his voice and puts a hand on Brendon’s arm. “I heard that things were getting tough at the club...”

“Um, no, I mean... well, we had a fight break out a few days ago. But that’s all. A couple of drunk thugs.” Brendon turns his head away for a moment, then turns back with a smile, lowering his ukulele. “But that’s not where I was.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Dallon smiles back.

“Well. I’m glad to hear that.” His voice isn’t shaking, is it? “But. But I’ve... we’ve been expecting you. I’m really excited to hear you, and I’m sure everyone else is too.”

Brendon glances at Jon, who is at least polite enough to give an encouraging nod, but Brendon seems to be made more nervous by Jon’s bowtie and tails. “I’m sorry, I don’t really have... glad rags, like those...” but Dallon waves away his concerns.

“Doesn’t matter. Come on in. I’ll show you to the piano.”

However, Dallon seems to be the only one who doesn’t mind what Brendon is wearing. As he leads the way through the front room towards the baby grand, everyone steps back out of their path, mostly in order to get a better look at the scruffy, under-dressed boy Dallon seems to have dragged up from the gutters. Brendon’s clothes are clean, at least, and he’s safe and here, so Dallon really isn’t sure what all the fuss is about. He gives Brendon an exhilarated smile, makes sure he’s seated at the piano and his ukulele is set safely aside, then shuts the radio off before turning to address his friends.

“This is Brendon! I found him,” he announces, almost affectionate, and Brendon blushes, hunches his shoulders, “I wanted him to play for us, and now he’s here, so let’s get back to dancing.” Not that he’s done any dancing all night, but when Brendon picks up a quick ragtime tune, as if he was never forced to quit playing for years, Lucy seems to appear like magic at Dallon’s side. And now that things are how they should be, now that everyone seems to be warming up to Brendon and his music, Dallon feels like he can smile and invite her to dance.

 

\-------

 

At some point, Lucy and her cohorts, Viola and Bea, successfully convince Dallon to open up the back doors and light a few lanterns, to let people into his modest back garden. He spends several minutes standing outside with the girls, smoking cigarettes and flirting as other couples meander around in the chilly night air, catching their breath, before he realizes Brendon is no longer playing and someone has turned the radio back on. He excuses himself with a charming smile, and heads back inside. The dance floor has emptied considerably, so Dallon checks his pocketwatch to realize it’s well past midnight. The couples that aren’t in the backyard are probably holding a petting party in Dallon’s smoking room, or the downstairs guest bedroom.

Patrick is approaching with an unlabeled bottle of clear liquor, probably heading for the backyard, and Dallon stops him, asks where Brendon is. After clarifying that Brendon is the pianist, a fairly-drunk Patrick explains that he saw him talking to Jon, a while ago, in the main hallway.

Dallon frowns. “Jon Walker?”

“Yeah. They went in a door someplace, looked serious.”

“Which door?”

Patrick thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Don’t remember. ‘Syour house, you know it better than I do.”

Dallon has to give him that one. He sighs, then thanks Patrick, and heads down the main hallway, cracking doors open to see what’s happening inside. The first two are, indeed, petting parties, and normally Dallon would be eager to find his own partner and join them, but something wicked and hateful is tugging at his chest at the thought of Jon and Brendon alone together. He knows it’s stupid; Jon is dizzy for Cassie and has been since before Dallon met either of them.

But that spiteful tug won’t go away.

He slides opens the door by the staircase, and this room, a barely used office, is actually lit, making it easy to see Jon and Brendon sitting in armchairs by the window, a small table between them, smoking and chatting like they’ve been friends forever. Dallon’s chest wrenches on itself, and he pushes the door open all the way, announces himself: “Did you enjoy yourself, then, Brendon?”

Both parties look up in mild surprise, and where Jon smiles, Brendon leans back in his chair and takes a drag on his cigarette. “About as much as you did, dancing with your girlfriends, I suppose.”

“He’s brilliant,” Jon interjects, diffusing the situation he didn’t know was building. “He played this wonderful jazzy tune that had so much _kick_ to it, I’d never heard it before, and he says he _wrote_ it! He wrote it, Christ, this kid is the cat’s pajamas.”

Dallon pulls the sofa over to their table, takes a seat, lights his own cigarette. “I know,” he exhales, giving Brendon a brief a grin that isn’t returned. “Did he sing? He can sing too.”

And now Jon is eyeing Brendon like a new toy. “Can you really?”

Brendon tries not to answer, but finally takes the smoldering cigarette from his mouth. “I suppose. If Dallon says I can.”

There’s something like spite in his voice, and Dallon frowns pointedly. “What are you angry about? What I heard, you sing wonderfully.”

“If you say so, you’re the one who _found_ me.”

Oh, that’s what this is about. Dallon wrinkles his nose, but before he can respond, Jon leans forward, his eyes thoughtful.

“Brendon. Are you a professional performer?”

It takes a moment for Brendon to respond: “I. Well, no. No, not exactly.” Dallon glances at him, and in the lamplight, can see the blush on Brendon’s cheeks. “I work at a club near the river, but... as a bartender. The owners prefer me there.”

Jon shake his head. “What a waste of talent. Listen. If you want a job onstage, all you have to do is ask me, and I’ll get you an audition. Shit, I’ll probably get you the job, if my father is dumb enough not to want you!”

A look of confusion crosses Brendon’s face, and Dallon laughs, waves his cigarette in Jon’s direction. “Jon’s father owns the Firefly,” he explains with a grin, and Jon shrugs like it’s meaningless, but the way Brendon’s mouth drops open implies that he knows the truth: the Firefly is a jewel. Also located by the river, though a few miles south of the Tap, in a much nicer part of town, the Firefly is a glowing haven for Chicago’s upperclass citizens, and the favored club of most of tonight’s partygoers.

Brendon stares for much longer than would be considered polite, his cigarette smoldering to ash between his fingers before he finally asks, “You... Jon, you could get me an audition at the _Firefly_?”

“If you like,” Jon responds conversationally. “It’s a waste of your talent to keep you holed up behind the bar in some downtown dive.”

“But I’m not...” And Brendon blushes darker, eyes darting from Jon, to Dallon, then back to Jon again, “I’m not... like you. These are the nicest rags I have, and I still stand out in this crowd.”

“Hell, if that’s all the problem is, I’ll get you a tux,” Jon rolls his eyes and snuffs his cigarette in the ashtray on the table between them. “I’ll get you a goddamn tux and some goddamn hair oil, and when you’re up there on stage, no one will give a shit where you go home to, because it’ll look like you could live here,” and he gestures at Dallon’s lavish home, “no one will care that it’s the only suit you own, and trust me,” he smiles, spreads his arms wide, “my father pays his entertainment _very_ well. Wherever it is you’re living now, you won’t be living there for long.”

For someone of Brendon’s station, with his talent, it’s an impossible offer to pass up; Brendon is nodding even before Jon mentions how much money he might make. “Please,” he responds softly, “yes, I would love to audition.”

Dallon and Jon both break into smiles, and Jon stands up, clapping his hands together. “Plan on meeting me outside the Firefly on Monday, just after dark, jake? Father can audition you before the club opens.” Brendon is still nodding, his cigarette having finally burnt out. “All right. I need to go find Cassie and take her home, then. Brendon, it was fantastic to meet you, and Dallon,” Jon grins brightly, almost teasing, “thanks for finding him.”

Brendon watches as Jon leaves, until the door is shut behind him, then absently drops what’s left of his cigarette in the ashtray. “Finding me, fuck,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, and Dallon blushes, runs a hand through his hair.

“Sorry, I guess I didn’t mean that to be rude,” Dallon offers, but Brendon shakes his head.

“No, no, I’m sorry, that wasn’t what I was angry about anyway.” Brendon pauses, then laughs slightly. “I can’t even be angry right now. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be balancing book-selling and bar-tending. But now I have an audition with the Firefly. A chance to be a real musician.” He laughs again, then turns to look at Dallon. “I owe you some kinda kiss for that.”

Dallon fights to hold back a smile, lifting a hand to rub his chin and neck. “Yes, well, you only offered that for the theater job...”

“Which I also got, thank you.” Brendon moves to sit next to Dallon on the sofa, a little two-seater that suddenly feels much smaller than that, with Brendon’s bony shoulder nudging into Dallon’s arm. Dallon swallows, can’t take his eyes off the little smirk sitting on Brendon’s lips.

“I thought so,” Dallon breathes, “glad to hear it.”

“So I owe you for that, at least. A kiss, right?” Dallon nods, quickly glancing at Brendon’s eyes, but that’s just a little too much, so his gaze returns to Brendon’s full mouth. “Well I’m not a man who likes to be in debt.”

“Oh?” Dallon responds, though it sounds choked, and when Brendon raises an eyebrow, Dallon feels ashamed of himself. It’s not like he’s never kissed a boy before. There’s no reason to be nervous about Brendon.

Except that there is. For one, Brendon is actually queer. Granted, Dallon hasn’t quite worked out the details of the difference between them, but he’s pretty sure there _is_ a difference. For another, Dallon is usually the one doing the seducing. And he’s not quite sure why he’s both drawn to Brendon and frightened by him, but it’s the truth, and while they’re sitting so close, and Dallon has attempted to take advantage of this kind of opportunity twice now, maybe it’s just a fear of a third rejection that leaves him stiff and scared. Even though Brendon _owes_ him, so he can’t turn him away...

Dallon swallows. Stares at his lap. Digs his nails into the sofa cushions. He can feel Brendon’s eyes on him, as Brendon makes a soft, thoughtful, humming noise.

“You know,” Brendon starts, “I’ve been wondering. Are you _really_ interested in those flappers? The ones you were dancing with?"

Dallon glances at him in surprise. “What? Why?” A shrug is his only response. “I... well, I mean, I’ll dance with whoever offers. Kiss them if they’re willing. It’s not hard to find someone who’s interested. In me, anyway.”

Brendon laughs slightly. “They were lining up to dance with you, and... and maybe I was jealous. _Maybe_ ,” he repeats when Dallon gives him a shocked look, “But I kept thinking, and maybe had to tell myself to keep thinking, that for some reason, even though it’s this easy for you... you kept finding and following me.”

And it’s true. It’s so true, and Dallon keeps looking at Brendon with that stunned expression, because he hadn’t thought about it. Finding Brendon both the first and the second time were accidents, but everything after that was deliberate. Very off the cuff, nothing planned out beyond wanting to see him, but that’s just the difference right there: Dallon didn’t just want to dance or talk or kiss, where anyone would do as long as they were warm. No, Dallon wanted _Brendon_. Just like he had told Jon earlier.

“Jiminy Cricket,” Dallon breathes, just before Brendon’s lips cover his own.

Brendon pushes Dallon into leaning against the arm of the couch, almost laying down, mostly hidden in case someone should enter the room unannounced, and their mouths never part, even as Dallon is trying to wrap his head around what’s happening. Brendon seems to be trying to make a point, his hands pulling at Dallon’s jacket and tie as his tongue pushes into Dallon’s mouth, and Dallon almost laughs, but forgets to when Brendon shifts against his stomach, cups his neck and pulls him closer. It’s intense, so much more so than the playful, cautious experimenting Dallon is used to from other boys; Brendon seems to know exactly what he’s doing and exactly what his goals are, as Dallon’s tie finally loosens, as Brendon’s knee finally settles between Dallon’s thighs.

Alarmed, Dallon shifts away, pulls back from the kiss to mumble some gibberish phrased as a question, and Brendon watches him with a smile on his swollen lips, supporting his weight on his hands.

“I thought you’d kissed men before,” he almost hums. Dallon sits up, panting softly as he slides away from Brendon’s overwhelming touch.

“I have,” he answers stubbornly, “it’s just that none of them have been so... so _eager_.”

Brendon laughs, cups Dallon’s face. “You thought _that_ was eager?” His gaze is almost affectionate, his thumb brushing the flushed skin on Dallon’s cheekbone. “Criminy, Dallon,” he breathes, leaning in for a slightly softer kiss this time, his other hand snaking around to the small of Dallon’s back, and now Dallon can think well enough to respond, to kiss back properly, even as he leans back down again, flat against the couch cushions, and keeps his hands pressed to Brendon’s shoulderblades. This is easier, closer to what he’s used to, though admittedly, he’s never laid down with anyone before, and on the tiny sofa it’s slightly uncomfortable.

But Brendon feels nice. He’s skinnier even than Dallon had thought, hiding it well under loose clothes, but as hands start to travel, as Brendon moves to unbutton Dallon’s jacket, untuck his shirt, Dallon pulls away again, sputters, tries to sit up, and Brendon gives him an irritated look.

“What are you doing?” Brendon asks when Dallon starts to tuck his shirt back in.

“What are _you_ doing?” Dallon counters, “All you owed was a _kiss_.”

“Yeah, for a theater job. What I actually got, also thanks to you, was a performing job.” He grins slightly, ducks to kiss Dallon’s earlobe. “That gets a little more.”

Dallon flushes from his neck to his ears to his forehead, and turns away. “Kissing is fine,” he mumbles.

Brendon is quiet for a moment, as they shift to sit next to each other again, though Brendon stays close enough that their hips touch. More silence follows, until Brendon finally exhales in a frustrated sigh.

“Is this what you always do?”

“What?”

“We didn’t even get to proper necking, let alone petting! I don’t understand!”

“I’ve never done that before!” Dallon admits, shaking his head. “Not with a _boy_ , anyway. I mean...” He runs a hand through his hair and tries to gather his thoughts. “I don’t think I’d _mind_. Not with _you_. But.” He turns to look at Brendon’s face, meeting his eyes. “You surprised me.”

Brendon watches back, then takes a deep breath. “Fair enough. Sorry. You just...” He stops himself and worries his lower lip. After a few seconds of silence, Dallon prompts him to continue. “Just... you were the one that asked me to dance. Who followed me home, kept trying to kiss me. I thought... I was sure that, while you might be inexperienced, you were just so bold and open about it, stupidly so, sometimes... I was sure I wasn’t your first. Your first man, anyway,” he says with a soft laugh. “The way you are with those flappers, I know you’ve at least done it in one way or another.”

“Done what?” Dallon wipes his sweaty hands on the knees of his pants, not looking at Brendon, though he knows what’s being referred to. The look Brendon gives him says that Brendon also knows that he knows.

“Dallon. There’s no ladies here, you don’t have to be coy. Nookie. Whoopee. Sex. You’re hanging around a bunch of college flappers and booze, and as rich as you are? Don’t pretend you’ve never done it.”

Well, Dallon never expected them to have this conversation. He hasn’t even had this conversation with Ian.

“But,” Dallon tries anyway, blushing dark red to the roots of his hair, “I haven’t.”

Brendon stares. For a long time, Brendon stares, and then he snaps, “Says _you_!” in a tone of pure surprise. “Don’t play me for a sap, it doesn’t bother me if you’ve slept with a girl or two!”

“But I _haven’t_!” Dallon repeats, almost pleading, though his voice his low. No one knows this. No one was ever supposed to know this.

And Brendon is still staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open, utterly shocked. “Wait... wait, let me clarify. You’re trying to tell me you’re a virgin?”

Dallon rubs his chin. The back of his neck. Then nods quickly.

Brendon huffs slightly. “How old are you again?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Criminy,” Brendon sputters, “Dallon, that ain’t right.”

“Says you!” Dallon fusses with the cuff of his right sleeve, purposely looking away from Brendon, trying in vain to hide his flushed face. “You’re queer, so it’s not like you’ve had a lot of opportunities, is it?”

“You’d be surprised,” Brendon says dryly. “And that’s different. How does somebody as...” he pauses. Swallows. “Somebody as rich as you, with all these roundheel skirts, flittering about in their pearls and feathers, throwing themselves at you... all that, how do you end up a _virgin_?!”

“I don’t know!” Dallon runs a hand through his hair and glances at Brendon, who is still staring as if Dallon suddenly sprouted a second head. “I don’t know, Brendon, just...” he shrugs and leans against the back of the sofa. “Kissing and petting were jake. I’ve done a lot of that. And it’s not that girls didn’t try! A few did, but... I was never interested _enough_.”

“So... so you just turned them away?” Brendon shakes his head, now only looking bewildered. “You could’ve done it just to do it. You wouldn’t be the first.”

Dallon shrugs. “But I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. I don’t know.” He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like that idea, I guess. Maybe that’s it.” Laughing slightly, “I never thought of myself as traditional, or even emotional, but maybe I just think it should be more than a requirement, or an urge.”

They sit in silence for a moment, as Dallon ponders over what he’s said, but it’s his turn to be surprised when Brendon suddenly puts his arms around Dallon’s shoulders and squeezes, nuzzling his nose into Dallon’s shoulder.

“Brendon?”

“Mm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Hugging you,” is the muffled response.

“Why?”

Brendon doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move away either. After a moment, Dallon slowly wraps his arms around Brendon’s waist, pulls him closer, and rests his head on top of Brendon’s. Silence falls. And stays.


	4. Afterglow

Dallon is taking an evening walk by the river when he runs into Jon and Cassie, who he hasn’t seen since his party earlier in the week. After exchanging pleasantries, Cassie invites him to dinner at her parents’ home the following evening. Jon laughs when Dallon looks confused.

“They have a new cook from New Orleans and are dying to show her off,” Jon explains with a grin. “We’ve invited Ian too.”

“And Viola,” Cassie adds before sending Dallon a sly glance. “And Lucy...”

Dallon frowns, hard. “What? Why are you... Cassie, I’m not interested in Lucy.”

“Ish kabibble,” Cassie waves his irritation away. “You’re a great match, like Jon and me. She’s got the best crush on you too.”

“On my money, more like,” and Dallon isn’t always so cynical about girls, but luckily Jon always seems to know just when to step in before an argument breaks out.

“So I haven’t seen you at the Firefly in a while,” Jon comments as he puts his arm around Cassie’s shoulders, squeezing slightly to diffuse her exasperation. “Brendon keeps saying he hopes you’ll drop by to see him perform.”

Dallon can’t help but smile, though he hopes it doesn’t give too much away; Jon already seems to have figured out that Dallon is, at the very least, drawn to Brendon. He doesn’t need Cassie to catch on and start telling her friends. “I was trying to wait until he settled in a little, but if he’s been asking for me...”

“He has,” Jon answers too quickly, shrugging slightly. “So you should stop by. Hell, come by tonight! I’ll be there, so you won’t have to go alone.” When Cassie shoots him an agitated glance, mumbles something about Lucy, Dallon sighs and Jon smiles. “Baby, you know he’s more likely to invite Ian than Lucy.”

“That’s not funny, Jon Walker,” Cassie scolds him, not noticing that Dallon is staring at his shuffling feet to keep her from seeing his flushed cheeks. “Dallon, I don’t mean any offense, but you’re not getting any younger! At your age, a man should be married, or at least engaged.”

Jon’s fiance never means any offense when she starts talking this way, but Dallon tends to find it offensive anyway, if only because she reminds him of his mother, and he’s generally not fond of anything that reminds him of his mother. On any other topic of conversation, he rather likes Cassie, but these days, ever since Jon surprised her with the rather decadent diamond she now wears on her finger, all her thoughts are on marriage. And while Dallon has always been closer to the male half of this couple, that has never stopped Cassie from trying to include him in her matchmaking plans.

“All right, how about this,” Dallon sighs again, rolling his eyes. “After dinner tomorrow, we should go to the Firefly. Drink, dance a little, I dunno. Lucy and Viola can come with us. Maybe. ” It’s vague, makes no promises, but Cassie finally smiles at him like he’s such a good boy, and he has to remind himself that she’s usually likable. “And I’m going tonight too,” he tells Jon, trying to sound firm, like he hasn’t fully conceded to Cassie’s feminine whims, “I haven’t seen Brendon since my party, and it’ll be fun to see him all dressed up with the band.”

Now Jon smiles. “He fits in like you wouldn’t believe. It’s only been a few days since his first rehearsal, and Greta and Spencer both are wild about him. You know how easygoing Spencer is, but for Greta to take to him is an achievement.” Jon laughs slightly, “Maybe he’s the one she’ll finally settle down with.”

“Nice thought, but I doubt it,” Dallon responds, forcing a smile even as something in his chest starts to twist viciously, even though he knows that vicious twisting is based on nothing. “I’m glad to hear he’s making friends, at least.”

Jon gives him a strange look, and Dallon turns his head away. “Well,” Jon hums after an awkward moment, “I guess I’ll see you tonight, then. Meet me at the alley entrance at eight?”

“Yeah,” Dallon answers with another forced smile. “And six-thirty for dinner tomorrow, right, Cassie?”

“Yes,” Cassie smiles back, “Lucy is really looking forward to seeing you outside the usual parties.”

Dallon somehow manages to keep from rolling his eyes.

 

\------

 

“I’m really sorry about the whole Lucy thing, mac,” Jon sighs as he leads the way up the Firefly’s back entrance. On a typical evening, Dallon would be making the convoluted trip through the front, two passwords, dark hallways, a darker staircase, and a member’s card, but with Jon there’s no need for all that. Jon knows all the secrets exits and entrances to his father’s club, the way celebrities and politicians sneak in and out.

“It’s not really your fault, I guess,” Dallon sighs as they reach the top floor, and Jon starts feeling around for the ladder that will lead them backstage. “I didn’t know Lucy was so serious about me, and I definitely didn’t figure she’d tell Cassie.”

Jon laughs. “Lucy’s been dizzy about you since she met you. I’m a little surprised you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed! I just thought she was like the other dames, you know. Looking for some fun.” Dallon shakes his head. “Not... I don’t know. Marriage.”

“All dames are looking for marriage, Dallon,” Jon says wisely. “However short their hair is, however much they drink and smoke and ride in cars, all any of them ever want is to get married. Even Greta, regardless of what she says,” he laughs, following the sound with a thudding noise just before he grabs Dallon’s wrist and pulls him forward. “Found it, come on up.”

Dallon follows Jon up the ladder, squinting against the bright light as Jon opens the trap door and crawls through it. Dallon stands and brushes dust from his jacket as Jon shuts the door behind them, wood planks that don’t stand out from the rest of the flooring, outside of a knothole just large enough for a man to fit a few fingers in.

Jon leads the way to the stage, though they stay just out of sight of the dance hall. The band’s sound is full and rich, and Brendon’s intricate piano melodies are just audible enough over the brass, clarinet and drums, though the man himself isn’t visible, thanks to an upright piano. The dance floor is full, cheerful and appreciative as the brass plays a final flourish, then stands for applause that Jon and Dallon join in on. When the band takes their seats again, it’s Brendon that leads them into the next song, another ragtime piece, and the crowd takes to it instantly.

“They’re good,” Dallon says, his foot bouncing in time with the tune. “Brendon’s really good.”

Jon turns to answer with a smile, but is cut off by a woman’s voice: “Isn’t he just the bee’s knees?” And Dallon turns to see Greta, the Firefly’s blonde vocalist, carrying a cup of fruit in one hand. Jon laughs, gestures at Dallon.

“This is the guy that introduced me to him. You remember Dallon Weekes, don’t you?”

Greta gives Dallon a once-over, then nods slowly as she bites into a strawberry. “I believe so. You come in with that curly-headed boy, don’t you?”

“Typically, yes,” Dallon answers shortly, “we’ve met a few times.” More than a few times, truthfully, and he doesn’t appreciate her shrug of disdain.

“I kind of remember you. Somewhat. Hard to _completely_ forget someone so tall, or blue-eyed, but frankly you could speak the same way of Spencer. Most men are interchangeable with each other.”

Jon rolls his eyes, and Dallon turns back to the stage and tries not to be offended: it’s been said that Greta can be sweet once you get to know her, but all Dallon has ever been treated to is a strange form of feminine arrogance that he likes to think is linked to her harboring a hopeless desire for him, but is probably more about the fact that this is the first option he leaps to. She has her own apartment and supports herself with her singing job, and likes to talk about how she doesn’t now and never will need a husband, let alone babies. Of course, talk like that tends to turn away any man who might change her mind, and if her attitude doesn’t scare him, the fact that she lives alone does. Not that Greta seems to mind.

“You’re not singing tonight?” Jon comments, as Dallon stands on his toes to try and get a glimpse of Brendon.

“Not until after the break. Your father wanted to open up after dinner with Brendon and me.”

“Just the two of you?” Dallon interjects, turning to look at her. She makes a face at him, sets her cup aside, and boredly twirls a long string of pearls around her finger.

“We thought we’d start with a slow, bluesy piece as everybody finishes dessert. Help them get in the mood to dance without making them feel like they _need_ to.”

“What are you playing?”

“Bessie Smith. [_Aggravatin’ Papa_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrkU8LZbK7s),” Greta answers with a grin. “I rather like the piece.”

Neither man is surprised. Dallon doesn’t really think it’s the kind of song one should play over coffee and cake, but decides that maybe it’s best not to say so.

Jon starts to applaud suddenly, and Dallon and Greta join in when they realize the band has finished the song, and are taking their last bow before the hour and a half dinner break. Greta pulls them away from the stage, making an easier pathway for the musicians, and Dallon keeps looking for Brendon, only recognizing him when Greta surges forward with an excited noise to hug a dark-haired man only a few inches taller than she is.

“You sound so good, Brendon!” She gushes uncharacteristically, almost maternally fixing Brendon’s tie and jacket, smoothing back his slick hair. Jon laughs and makes some comment, probably about Greta’s odd affection for the boy, but Dallon doesn’t hear it.

Brendon looks so _different_.

His face is the same. Those big brown eyes and pink lips, but this is the first time Dallon’s ever seen him with his hair slicked back. In a bowtie and black tails, his shoulders don’t look quite so small, and it’s easier to see his masculine shape. And Brendon sees him over Greta’s head and _smiles_ , smiles so wide, Dallon feels his face flush slightly pink even as he smiles back.

“Yeah,” Dallon adds, his throat dry, “yeah, you sound really good.”

Brendon steps away from Greta’s fussing, moves to shake Dallon’s hand, and Dallon can’t stop staring at him. “I’m so glad you came. You met Greta, right?”

Whatever reason Greta has for being so fond of Brendon, Dallon can see from the look on her face that she does not appreciate Brendon being so fond of Dallon.

“Um.” Dallon swallows. “Yes.”

Jon is kind enough to take Greta’s arm, invite her to eat at his father’s table, an offer her career and pride can’t turn down. As they leave through a side door that leads to the dining room, Brendon’s hand presses to the back of Dallon’s neck and pulls him down for a short, gentle kiss.

“What’s that all about?” Dallon asks softly, pulling away.

Brendon slides his hand over Dallon’s shoulder, down his arm, to pinch the cuff of his sleeve, grinning the whole time. “To thank you. Again. For this opportunity.”

Dallon laughs slightly. “Hey, you’re the one who impressed Jon’s father-”

“But I wouldn’t have had the chance to do so without you. So. Thanks.” They smile at each other for a brief moment, then Brendon tugs on Dallon’s sleeve. “Come on. I want you to meet Spencer. He’ll be on the roof.”

“Why up there?” Dallon asks as Brendon starts to pull him behind the stage, where a ladder is leaning against the back wall, leading to yet another trap door. “It’s cold outside.”

“He and some of the other guys like to smoke mesca during the break,” Brendon answers as he starts to climb. Dallon follows, very purposely trying not to stare, though he’s pretty sure he’s blushing as they drag themselves through the trapdoor. Luckily, there’s a sharp wind that can explain away any sort of pink cheeks.

“Brendon!” A voice calls, and there’s three men in the back corner, situated in a circle around an old lantern. The one that’s twisted towards them, bearded and blue-eyed, waves his hand with a disarming smile. “Come on, plenty to go around!”

Dallon follows Brendon over, who introduces Pete, Andy, and Spencer. Dallon is pleasantly surprised that, unlike Greta, the men all remember him and seem pleased to see him. Andy even offers him a hit, which Dallon gladly takes; anything to calm that buzzing, nervous sensation he always gets when Brendon’s around.

“So what are we chinning about,” Dallon asks as he passes the joint to Brendon, who takes it with some hesitance.

“Spencer,” Pete answers, which earns Spencer’s glare in his direction. “What? I’ve been telling you since she left to move on.”

“Who?” Brendon asks in a rough voice, coughing and trying to hide it as he passes the joint to Spencer. Dallon smiles to himself; it’s nice to know there’s something he knows how to do better than Brendon, even if it’s just smoking marijuana.

“Haley. Spencer’s girl,” Andy offers. “Kind of.”

Spencer takes a second hit, looking agitated, so Pete shakes his head. “They were dating for almost a year before her father finally figured out what she was doing. Her daddy doesn’t like the way things are done these days, and especially didn’t like Spencer’s job, so he sent her off to finishing school. _Finishing school_!” Pete chuckles. “Like she’s some Victorian maid or something.”

Spencer finally passes the joint to Pete, probably to make him stop talking. “Pete thinks I need to give up on her,” he says stiffly.

“You’re such a romantic,” Pete responds after a pause, “If she hasn’t sent for you yet, she’s not going to. It’s almost been a year!”

“She’s busy! Finishing school, and all...”

“How old is she?” Brendon asks.

“Just turned eighteen.” Spencer fidgets slightly. “She said she’d send for me, to meet her up there once things got settled.” It’s such a vague offer of hope, it’s unlikely she’ll hold to it; Dallon knows that excuse very well. “I might just go anyway. Try to find her.”

“In New York City?” Andy laughs. “You do know how large New York City is, don’t you?”

And Dallon doesn’t like this conversation anymore.

“There’s jobs in New York,” Brendon offers, reaching over Dallon when he refuses his turn with the joint. “Music jobs. You could do well there, Spencer.”

“I know. You could all come with me,” And Spencer smiles again, almost dazzling, but Dallon hunches his shoulders, tries to wait for the topic to pass. “You especially, Brendon. I could see you thriving in New York.”

“You think so?”

Dallon _really_ doesn’t like this conversation anymore. “New York’s not that great,” he mumbles, leaning back on his arms, avoiding the stares from the other men in the circle.

Pete speaks first: “Have you ever _been_ there?” Someone always asks that, like they can’t imagine someone not liking that city unless they’ve never visited.

“I grew up there,” Dallon snaps, “so I think I’d know more about it than you would.”

Brendon glances at him in surprise. “You never mentioned that.”

“It’s not important. I live here now. I don’t plan on going back.”

“What’s so bad about it?” Brendon presses, “It can’t be that different from here.”

But it is. It’s different for a million reasons Dallon doesn’t want to talk about. “Never mind,” he says, his voice steady but low as he stands up, starts to walk back to the trapdoor, ignoring the protests from the other guys. “Forget about it. Never mind.”

“Dallon!”

Dallon turns around, sees Brendon watching him, looking confused and... hurt, almost. No. Can’t be.

Still.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night. All right? Sorry, I’ll see you all then.”

And he makes his way back down the ladder. Out of the club. Into the night. He breathes in Chicago air, enjoys Chicago pavement and scenery, catches the Chicago streetcar back to his Chicago home.

Where he stays up until two writing the first letter in eight months to his family in New York.

 

\------

 

Lucy is wearing a gold dress. At Cassie’s home, it was rather stunning and eye-catching; even Dallon had to admit it, which put an absolutely insufferable look of victory on Cassie’s face for the rest of the evening.

But at the Firefly, she blends into the scenery. She admitted on the ride over in Dallon’s car that she had never been to the Firefly before; she, like Jon and Cassie, tended to prefer house parties. So it’s possible that she was just completely unaware of the gold curtains and chandeliers, paired with the white flooring that just made one feel as if they were encased in some sort of decadent golden cell.

Still. A dress that was incredible at home is boring now, fades into the scenery, and Dallon only gives Lucy one dance before he retreats to the bar, hoping she’ll find some new, rich cat to chase in the club’s well-to-do crowd.

It doesn’t help his foul mood that Brendon is particularly lively on-stage tonight, and has the entire crowd eating out of the palm of his hand as he practically dances in his seat, making faces and singing along with Greta, who seems to find it charming. Never mind that if any other man had attempted to usurp her vocals, she would have kittens. Brendon is _Brendon_ , and even Greta loves Brendon.

“All right, what’s up with the sour puss?” The rather large bartender asks as he passes Dallon his third gin and soda.

“What’s it to you?” Dallon counters, but the man only laughs.

“Look, pal, I saw you come in with the boss’s son. I just don’t want to be the patsy that lets one of Jon’s friends get lit, then has to kick you out and risk my own job.”

Dallon frowns slightly, then fidgets in his seat. “I won’t get that drunk,” he says softly. “I’m just waiting for the band to finish their set.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dallon Weekes.”

And the bartender must be older than he looks, or more educated, because he gives Dallon a surprised look. “Weekes? As in, Weekes Steel and Iron?”

“That’s me,” Dallon answers meekly, then takes a long drink. “I’m the youngest son.”

When he puts his cup down, the bartender offers him a hand to shake. “Zack Hall,” he says when Dallon takes his hand, “I own stock in your father’s company.”

Dallon is starting to think he should just avoid the Firefly altogether, if all it does is lead to conversations he doesn’t want to have. “That’s... great?” He answers uncertainly. “I’m glad to hear that, I guess.”

But Zack just shrugs and starts to fix him another drink. “So why are you over here waiting for the band to finish instead of dancing with that dish you came in with?”

Dallon shifts in his seat to watch Ian and Viola dancing, laughing, and Cassie and Jon doing the same. Lucy is nowhere to be seen, and frankly Dallon isn’t concerned. “She’s not my type,” he says after a moment.

"Asking too much?”

“Yeah. She was jake until I found out she was feeling around for a ring.” Dallon takes a drink and turns back to the bar. “Now I wish I hadn’t let her pursue me so hard.”

Zack laughs. “All the girls pursue hard these days. They talk big about being liberated, like Greta, but all they really want is a man and some babies. One of them is going to catch you someday, make you want to settle down. It happened to me, it’s happened to Jon, it’ll happen to you.”

Dallon isn’t so sure about that, but opts not to say so, especially when applause starts to ring through the hall, followed by shuffling noises as everyone heads for the dining room. Dallon hastily tosses a silver dollar on the bar. “Keep it,” he tells Zack as he stands and straightens his jacket. “Thanks for the talk.”

No one is there to stop him as he rushes backstage, even though the musicians are still milling around, and it takes a moment before his eyes finally settle on Brendon, who still looks so different all dressed up. Brendon is standing by the ladder to the roof, talking to Spencer, who notices Dallon’s approach and gives him a strained smile.

“I wasn’t expecting you to actually come back,” Spencer says.

“I wanted to talk to Brendon.”

Brendon only glares. Spencer glances between them, uncomfortably, then clears his throat. “Then. I’ll go upstairs.” He pauses on the second rung. “Though you’re both welcome to join us, if you want.”

Once Spencer has closed the trapdoor behind him, Brendon crosses his arms over his chest. “What?”

“I... I behaved badly yesterday.”

“Oh really? Having a tantrum because the conversation happened to turn to New York City, is that bad behavior? I wasn’t sure.”

“Brendon.” Dallon frowns, runs his hands through his hair. “I’m trying to apologize.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Dallon frowns. Takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I don’t really... I don’t talk about home because I don’t like to talk about home.” He stops, but Brendon looks like he’s still waiting, arms still crossed. “My... family is still there. That’s all.”

Brendon relaxes his shoulders, his eyes wider than usual. “And you miss them?”

“No. No, if I wanted to go home, all I’d have to do is say so. Listen, I’m sorry I was rude yesterday, but I just don’t want to talk about New York, or my family, or anything like that.”

Brendon watches him closely for a long moment, then finally drops his arms. “Fair enough.” They stand in tense silence for a while, Brendon gripping one of the ladder rungs over his head, as if trying to hold his balance. “I saw... that flapper girl was here. I saw you dance with her.”

Dallon frowns. “Who? Lucy? We only danced once. I have no idea where she even is right now.” He laughs slightly, ashamed. “I honestly don’t even particularly care.”

Brendon stares, his eyes intent. “Listen,” he says slowly, turning his face to the floor, “you could... stay back here until the end of the night, then... I don’t know.” He sighs, almost a whistle. “Come home with me.”

It’s a strange invitation, knowing where Brendon lives, how cold and empty his little room is. Dallon isn’t even sure where Brendon sleeps, exactly. “Why?” Dallon asks, after pondering for a moment. Brendon blinks, surprised, then laughs.

“Oh. I forgot. You’re not...,” he laughs again, looks utterly irresistible. “Never mind. I was being selfish.”

“No, no, I mean, if you want me to, I’ll come. Hell, I brought my car, so I could drive.”

“I... didn’t know you had a car.”

“I hardly ever use it. But I’ve got it tonight, so I don’t have a problem taking you home and staying over, if you like.”

Brendon looks slightly unnerved, chewing on his lower lip, but then he laughs. “Dallon, you’re so...” he trails off. Laughs again. “Yeah. All right. Let’s do that.”

 

\------

 

Apparently Brendon sleeps on a pile of ratty blankets, near the stove that remains unlit for the night. Not that Dallon hasn’t found warmth without it. No, as confusing as the offer had initially seemed, coming home with Brendon ended up being a very good idea as soon as Brendon shut the door behind them and pulled Dallon’s head down for an intense kiss. Brendon had led the way from there, grinning invitingly as he straightened his blankets out and reached for Dallon’s hand. When Dallon knelt on the blankets, still feeling unsure, Brendon had all but attacked his mouth, pulling him to lay on top of Brendon as the kiss deepened.

Brendon shifts beneath him, pulls out of the kiss to exhale softly, run a hand through Dallon’s hair, which is starting to fall loose around his face. “You’re so good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a virgin.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Dallon chuckles, dropping a kiss to Brendon’s chin. “I’ve done a lot of this.”

“I can kind of tell,” Brendon hums, his hand skating down the back of Dallon’s dress shirt, “So how about you tell me what you haven’t done.”

Dallon flushes dark, can feel it rising from his neck. “Excuse me?”

“You know how to kiss, and how to neck. What can I teach you?”

“Is that what I’m here for?” Dallon swallows. “To be... taught?”

Brendon shrugs, awkwardly under Dallon’s weight. “I like you, when you’re not behaving like a spoiled child. We can call it teaching, if that helps, but frankly, I like that you’ve... you chose this. You chose not to use someone else just to relieve your own tension. If we start doing more than just necking, I would like it to be because you like me, not because you’re ashamed of your innocence.”

There’s something in Brendon’s face as he says this that almost looks like embarrassment. Maybe shyness. Maybe hope. Dallon smiles slightly, gives a strange, huffy little laugh. “If you think I’m not interested in you, you’re not paying enough attention.”

“I’m just saying. You could get the same attention from that girl. From Lucy.”

Dallon thinks about that for a moment, then leans in for a slow kiss, sliding his lips down Brendon’s neck. “But I don’t want it from Lucy,” he mumbles into Brendon’s skin, “This suits me just fine.”

Brendon makes an odd little noise when Dallon nips at his skin, but his grip tightens on Dallon’s shoulders, so it doesn’t appear that he wants to stop. Their lips meet again, swift and fierce, and Brendon roughly drags his hands down Dallon’s sides, to his hips, then starts to untuck his shirt. This time, Dallon doesn’t pull away, though he does move a hand to Brendon’s hair, gripping slightly. Brendon makes another noise, nips at Dallon’s lower lip, presses callused fingertips to the sensitive skin on Dallon’s stomach. Feeling dizzy and short of breath, Dallon rolls onto his side, presses his face to Brendon’s shoulder.

“What?” Brendon asks, shifting to look at Dallon. “Should I not have-”

“No, don’t, just...” Dallon takes a deep breath, “give me a moment.” Brendon cups Dallon’s neck, kisses the top of his head, mumbles something into his hair. “What?”

“You were getting hard.” Dallon sits up straight, painfully slams his elbow in the floor as he does so, his face glowing red, and Brendon just rolls on his back, grinning. “Well?”

Dallon pants slightly. Stammers. Looks away, and stammers some more until Brendon reaches up to touch his face, laughing.

“Dallon. It’s all right.” And when Brendon pulls him down for a soft kiss, Dallon can’t help melting into it, however mortified he might be that Brendon could _tell_. “Dallon,” comes the whisper, as Brendon moves his lips up Dallon’s cheek to his ear, “if you weren’t getting hard, I’d be very offended.”

“What?” Dallon breathes, then makes a choked noise as Brendon’s tongue traces the shell of his ear, make a trail down his neck, and Brendon’s hands are fluttering at his tie, at the buttons of his shirt, and he almost stops him. Almost. This onslaught of want is something Dallon has experienced only rarely, with more delicate, petite hands that were easier to dissuade, easier to _want_ to dissuade. Stopping Brendon would be habit, nothing more. Callused fingers touch his chest while a hot mouth attaches to his shoulder, and Dallon bites his lip, whimpers slightly. Brendon guides him to lay on his back, and gently presses a finger to his lips.

“Don’t let my neighbors hear you,” Brendon murmurs, even as he’s opening Dallon’s shirt, trying to push it off his shoulders.

“Sure, yeah, all right,” Dallon rushes out, pulling Brendon into a kiss, trying to distract himself as the younger man’s hands start to fuss with his belt. Dallon is really trying to ignore this, trying to focus on Brendon’s mouth, but Brendon keeps trying to pull away. “Brendon,” Dallon almost whines, “please just kiss me.”

“But I want to see,” Brendon argues, his voice low as he sits back on his knees between Dallon’s legs, tossing the belt aside.

“See what?” Dallon asks, stupidly. Brendon quickly lifts his head, just to show Dallon his raised eyebrow, then returns to watching his hands on the buttons of Dallon’s trousers, the buttons of Dallon’s underwear, and Dallon gasps softly. “Jiminy Cricket, Brendon, you’re-”

“Too much?” Brendon withdraws his hands, holds them by his head. “Just wanted to see.” One corner of his mouth twists up, the same side as that teasing eyebrow. “Maybe touch.”

Dallon swallows. “Really?” Licks his lips. “Do you really want to?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Brendon asks, amused, as Dallon flushes pink. “Yeah, Dallon. I want to touch you. I want you to touch me. Am I embarrassing you?” He almost laughs, as Dallon’s face gets darker. “Do you not want the same thing? I mean, you haven’t tried to undress me...”

“Sorry,” Dallon mutters, “I’m not very good at this.”

“It’s just new,” Brendon says, grabbing Dallon’s hands and placing them on the waistband of his own trousers. “Go ahead. Give it a try.” When Dallon hesitates, Brendon laughs again. “They’re not all that different from yours, babe. What’s underneath probably isn’t too different either.”

Dallon loses his breath, glances at Brendon’s face, then back at his hands. After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he presses one hand to Brendon’s stomach, over his shirt, then drags his palm down until he can feel Brendon’s hard prick beneath his trousers. Brendon makes a soft noise, pushing into Dallon’s touch.

“Christ,” Brendon murmurs, reaching over to grip one of Dallon’s shoulders. “You’re bolder than I thought you’d be.”

Dallon doesn’t respond, just keeps his hand steady, touching and testing, feeling out Brendon’s size, and he leans over, presses a kiss to Brendon’s neck as he starts to work on the trouser buttons, and the younger man moves to match him, tugging Dallon’s underwear open, and Dallon makes a loud, strangled noise when Brendon’s hand grips his cock. No one has ever touched him there before, and Brendon is laughing as he kisses Dallon’s mouth, his free hand cupping the back of Dallon’s head while the other stays put, his palm moving in gentle circles.

“I told you to keep quiet,” Brendon whispers, unable to hold back his giggles as he pulls away, and as Dallon bites his lip, “Criminy, you’re just...” and he shakes his head, still laughing, removes his hand to lick the palm before gripping Dallon again, stroking in a slow rhythm. Dallon’s head falls back, flashes in pain as his crown slams against the wall, and Brendon starts to laugh again.

“Not funny,” Dallon hisses, rubbing the back of his head. He hisses again when Brendon’s thumb slides over his slit.

“Focus,” Brendon answers with a grin. “Weren’t you working on something?”

But it’s so hard to focus on that when Brendon is touching him this way, when he’s trying not to make too much noise, and he fumbles with the buttons on Brendon’s underwear. He can see hair now, and not much else, but that dark spark of forbidden hair somehow makes everything click in his head: what he’s doing, where and with who, and a noise escapes his throat as his hips jerk up into Brendon’s touch. And Brendon, almost as if he knows, as if he doesn’t mind, Brendon laughs and kisses his neck, his ear, and his mouth when he picks up speed and Dallon proves he can’t keep quiet after all.

Dallon struggles to keep his head, especially with Brendon kissing him, Brendon’s hand on his cock, and finally reaches his own hands into Brendon’s underwear, taking the younger man by surprise; Brendon yelps, bites hard on Dallon’s neck, and Dallon comes before he even realizes he’s close.

“Shit,” is the only thing Dallon can think of to say, sitting there with Brendon’s still-hard cock in his hands and his own come on his stomach. “Shit. _Shit_!”

“I’ve never heard you swear before,” Brendon comments, sounding amused as he kisses Dallon’s mouth. “Don’t worry about it, just finish what you started.”

Still panting, Dallon lifts his head to look at Brendon. “You... you don’t mind? That I...”

“So soon? I’m not surprised. I’ve seen more experienced men finish sooner, so don’t fret, kitten.” Brendon mouths his way up Dallon’s cheek to suckle on his earlobe, and Dallon shivers, closes his eyes, tries to pretend he doesn’t care that he’s not Brendon’s first. “All I care about now is that you help me to the same end.”

“Okay,” Dallon breathes. Runs a hand through his hair. Grips Brendon again, and Brendon bites his lip, makes a soft whining noise; hair oil, Dallon thinks as he works up a rhythm, must work better than spit.

Brendon is better at staying quiet, panting roughly in Dallon’s ear without making any other noise, and Dallon almost wonders if he’s doing something wrong. It’s no different from his own prick, right? Maybe a little shorter, a little thicker, but the make up is the same. So he runs his thumb under the ridge at the head, gently drags his nail down the vein on the underside, and Brendon moans softly, and that’s much better. Encouraged, Dallon presses the palm of his free hand flat under Brendon’s navel, the skin smooth with just a hint of hair, and drags his hand down until he can cup Brendon’s balls.

“Oh,” Dallon gasps. Turns and presses his mouth to Brendon’s neck as Brendon starts making soft noises. “Wow.” Brendon’s hand fumbles, grips Dallon’s arm, and Brendon’s teeth dig into Dallon’s shoulder, muffling the noise he makes as he comes.

They sit for a long moment, Brendon panting while Dallon wipes the mess off his chest, shakes it off his hand, then winds his hand into Brendon’s hair, trying to catch his own breath and keep his thoughts from getting ahead of themselves. His first time messing around with another person, and he chooses a man. Deliberately. Brendon wasn’t wrong when he said that Lucy would have been just as willing. And Dallon had stayed anyway.

It doesn’t mean he’s an invert. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t, even though having Brendon pressed warmly against him, breath slowing, hair soft and pliant and a little damp, this is nice.

Dallon liked it. He likes this too. And Brendon pulls back, meets his eyes and smiles, so maybe Brendon enjoyed himself as well.

“So?” Brendon prompts, voice low, brushing a lock of hair from Dallon’s forehead. “What did you think?”

Dallon shrugs off-handedly, then lets himself grin when Brendon’s face falls. “It was... it was fun,” he answers. “I’d do it again, I think.”

“Really?” Brendon nestles his face into Dallon’s neck, sighs softly. “‘Cause I was thinking the same thing.”

“Good,” Dallon hums, his nose in Brendon’s hair. “I just have one question, though.”

“What’s that, kitten?”

“Can I get pregnant from this?”

Brendon jerks away, stares at Dallon like he’s never been asked such a stupid question in his life, and Dallon can’t keep a straight face; he laughs, always pleased to pull off a joke. His head falls back against the wall, and after a moment, Brendon starts to giggle too. “You’re so goofy,” Brendon murmurs, and Dallon just shrugs, still grinning, like the world is perfect.


	5. Surviving

“Okay,” Ian says, all but throwing a teacup of gin and soda across the table, towards Dallon, “spill.”

“Spill what?” Dallon counters innocently, taking a sip and glancing around the room. This is their fourth night at the Firefly this week, and Ian hasn’t been subtle about his boredom; Ian doesn’t like stagnancy or sameness, and four times in one week is far too many. When Dallon suggested the Firefly again tonight, Ian had only agreed under the condition that they eat in the dining room, instead of following Brendon and Spencer up to the roof. Dallon had reluctantly agreed.

“You know what,” Ian snaps, pulling his chair closer to Dallon’s and ignoring his own drink in an attempt to stare Dallon down. “You never want to go anywhere else anymore. When we come here, you don’t dance and you don’t eat. So what are we here for. And don’t try to lie to me, I’m no sap.”

“If you know, then why are you asking,” Dallon says, still focusing on his drink so as not to focus on Ian. “

“I want you to say it. We’re just here because of Brendon, aren’t we.”

Seven times in two weeks, and Ian is only now getting to this? Dallon laughs slightly. “Sure. And? He’s a friend, I’m trying to support him.” Not that Brendon really needs support from Dallon, considering the crowd tended to fawn over Brendon’s charismatic stage presence even before Greta, of all people, suggested he start singing a few songs a night. “Come on, it’s fun, isn’t it? It’s a club, there’s hooch, there’s mesca, there’s jazz, and shebas just waiting for a dance. You’d be doing the same thing anywhere else-”

“Dammit, Dallon!” Ian slams his palm on the table, almost knocks his drink over, attracts the attention of the women at the next table over. “Stop it. I told you at the start of this whole thing, you’re not playing some game! I’m...” Ian pauses. Shakes his head, reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. “I’m worried about you,” he mumbles as the cigarette catches, lights up in big brown eyes, and Dallon is genuinely surprised. When he resolved to stay in Chicago after graduation, started making new friends while his old ones all returned home, none of the new friendships had seemed particularly deep, relying mainly on parties and club memberships. For Ian to admit to his concern is unexpected, but touching.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But I do, because even you don’t understand what you’re doing.” Ian sighs in a cloud of smoke. “So you should tell me what’s happening with Brendon. Someone’s gotta watch your back for you.”

Dallon frowns, takes a drink. “Nothing’s happening,” he lies; he’s been back at Brendon’s apartment twice since that first night, though they hadn’t tried anything beyond what they were already doing. Ian glowers, shakes his head.

“I told you not to lie to me. If nothing was happening, you would’ve gotten bored already. I know you. I’m your friend. So stop lying and catch me up.”

“If I told you, you’d never look at me the same way again,” Dallon says after a long pause. Ian sighs. Runs a hand through his curly hair. Takes a long, rough drag on his cigarette.

“Shit, Dallon,” He says finally, almost to himself. “All right. Then. Is this... you know Lucy is carrying a torch for you, right?” He adds almost hopefully. Dallon’s scowl is so fierce that Ian almost recoils from it. “All right, all right, fine. I’ll... I’ll keep my eyes and ears out for you. Just promise me that you’ll be careful too.”

Ian’s concern is so confusing that Dallon can only nod, agreeing to the promise, though Ian doesn’t seem to relax. He leans back in his chair, smoking and staring at Dallon, as if trying to puzzle out what’s changed. Dallon sits, drinking, uncomfortable under Ian’s gaze. After a moment, Ian snuffs his cigarette, leans forward.

“You’re stuck on him, aren’t you?”

“Jiminy Cricket,” Dallon mutters, but doesn’t respond. Ian swears under his breath.

“You said you were keen on him at the Tap, but I thought you’d just... kiss him and move on, not... you’re like a lost pup at his heels, sometimes!”

“Says you!” Dallon counters, trying not to think of how Brendon has taken to calling him ‘kitten.’ “It’s none of your beeswax anyway, so just forget it.”

Ian takes a long drink, and turns away, lips pressed tight together, saying nothing until it’s time to file back into the dance hall, where Brendon is waiting onstage, and Dallon breaks into a hopeless smile. Ian takes a deep breath, and manages to hold back whatever comment it is he wants to make, instead telling Dallon that he was going to find a dame to dance with. Dallon only nods his acknowledgement and heads for the bar. Zack smiles to see him now, calls him by name, tries to talk business, but Dallon just wants a French 75. Zack comments on this deviation from the norm, but Dallon insists it’s still gin, and the rest doesn’t matter.

After a few sips, Dallon pays, tips Zack well, and walks around the dancefloor to the stage. A few nights ago, Jon had said it was all right for him to just lean against the stage and watch the orchestra, if he wanted; Cassie admitted that she and Jon often liked to do the same, enjoying the musicality of jazz, the finer points of flourishes and solos. Dallon doesn’t particularly care about that; he just likes being able to see Brendon, who is singing like he came out of the womb belting a tune.

Dallon just grins. Sips his drink. And this moment is perfect, if only for this moment.

Because in the next moment, shots ring out, echoing in the hall, followed by high-pitched screams, and the orchestra clangs to a halt as everyone falls to the floor, finds a hiding space, or makes a dash for the nearest exit. Dallon starts to hunker down, even as he tries to find Ian in the mass of people, but someone grabs his wrist and tugs. Looking up, it’s Spencer, pale and harried, and, when another set of shots goes off, Dallon doesn’t even stop to think. He hauls himself onto the stage and follows Spencer behind the curtains, where the rest of the orchestra is making their way down Jon’s trapdoor, trying to get out the back exit. Dallon wants to peek through the curtains, try once again to find Ian, but he’s afraid of what kind of sight might be waiting for him on the other side. Gunshots in a packed dancehall is like shooting fish in a barrel; there will be casualties. Dallon only prays Ian isn’t one of them.

Spencer grabs Dallon’s wrist again, almost shoves him towards the trap door. Another shot, further away, maybe in the main entrance hallway. “You first,” the bearded man says, his voice soft. Dallon doesn’t have to be told twice.

Brendon is waiting alone in the dark hallway just below, his face just visible in the light from backstage, and Dallon feels at least some form of relief that Brendon had managed to run fast enough to avoid disaster. Spencer follows Dallon down the ladder, so the most affection Brendon can give is to grip the cuff of his jacket, his face panicked just before the trapdoor closes and leaves them in darkness.

“What the hell was that?” Brendon asks, his voice high. Dallon feels what must be Spencer’s hand on the back of his neck, pushing him towards the staircase at the other end of the hall.

“You said you came from a gin joint on the North Side, right?” Spencer answers in a low voice as they carefully make their way down the stairs. “Did your boss cave to the Gennas?”

Dallon has only heard whispers of this; the violence makes the news, but the reasons for it are unprintable. The North Side and South Side gangs have been trading hits and thefts back and forth for years, though the worst Dallon heard was earlier this year, when O’Banion’s North Side gang stole cases and cases of liquor from the southern Sibly Distillery, in broad daylight, with police protection.

“Yes,” Brendon whispers in the dark, “Yeah, we... O’Banion heard we were buying from the Sicilians at the lower cost, and he sent a thug down to scare us. Fight broke out.” He pauses. Dallon remembers this, the rumors Ian had passed along just before the last house party; Brendon hadn’t mentioned the gangs. “It was bad. No guns, but... bad.”

“Yeah, well, this is Genna territory. They’re pretty happy with this place, so it’s a prime retaliation target, don’t you think?” And Spencer pushes ahead at the bottom of the staircase, checks the peephole at the door. “Sorry to tell you, kid, but this ain’t the first time we’ve had Drucci or some other hired man come down here with a gun. Coast is clear, but watch your fucking backs.”

And Dallon can only believe Spencer; only someone who’s seen such a thing before could keep so clear-headed. If not for Spencer, Dallon might still be hunkered down by the stage, a sitting duck. The door opens to a fairly quiet alley, though some screaming can still be heard a few blocks away, carried on the night air, and a group of kids in fancy clothes runs by the alley entrance; Dallon thinks he sees a mop of curly hair, but they’re gone too quick to tell, and he’s not stupid enough to raise his voice.

“Are you two going to be all right?” Spencer asks softly. “Don’t walk if you don’t have to.”

“I parked my car a few blocks down,” Dallon answers, and before either of the others can ask, “I’ll take Brendon home. You too, if you want.”

Spencer shakes his head. “My apartment’s nearby. I’ll run. You better do the same, ‘cause the fuzz are gonna be here any minute now.”

And Spencer turns to start running, staying near the wall. Brendon seems frozen on the spot, eyes wide, until another scream rises in the night, nearer this time, and Dallon takes Brendon’s hand, pulls him into a run towards the car. He tells himself that Spencer and Ian will be fine, that he just has to take care of himself and Brendon, find everyone else tomorrow and thank God if they're all okay.

But Brendon is still and quiet as Dallon starts the car, pulling away, driving slow through the empty streets. Dallon glances at him, worries his lower lip. “Are you all right?”

Brendon just shrugs, doesn’t even look at Dallon. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Brendon might be trembling. Truth be told, Dallon’s mind is still racing, his heartbeat quick, thinking of all the ways he (or Brendon or Spencer or Ian) might have gotten hurt tonight, thinking of the unknown people who did get hurt, who might be dead, and this is too much. He makes the turn towards home, his own home, and Brendon looks up, out the window.

“Where-”

“I’m taking you to my place,” Dallon says softly, firmly. “I... I think that’d be safer.”

It’s not as if some outfit thug knows where Brendon lives, or that either one of them were the target, if there even was one. Something in Dallon is still shaken up, and he just wants to be near Brendon tonight, and he wants them both to be comfortable. His home has several fireplaces, beds, blankets, plenty of food and drink, any comfort either of them might need after tonight.

But Brendon doesn’t protest; he leans back in his seat and stays silent until Dallon parks in the alley behind his home.

“Where am I sleeping?” Brendon asks, already loosening his tie as they walk up the back steps, entering the house through the kitchen. Dallon clicks on the electric lamp and turns to look at Brendon.

“Wherever you like, I suppose.”

Almost as if it were an invitation, Brendon surges forward, grabbing Dallon’s face and pulling him down for an impassioned kiss, so swift and feral that Dallon stumbles, one hand grabbing the counter to hold his balance, though Brendon doesn’t seem to notice, and after a moment, Dallon starts to return the kiss, winding both hands in Brendon’s hair. It’s bringing him back to reality, slowly grounding him, even as the kiss intensifies and Brendon’s hands make their way up Dallon’s chest, undoing every button with deft fingers. Dallon pulls out of the kiss, trying to catch his breath. “Brendon-”

“Tonight,” Brendon gasps, tugging Dallon’s jacket off his shoulders, then quickly moving to remove his own, “Tonight, you’re fucking me.”

Dallon stops breathing.

“I need to not think about what happened tonight. I just need that. And I, I know you’re a virgin, but... but I was going to be the one you finally did it with anyway.” Brendon pauses, his shirt half open, and lifts his pale, worried face to Dallon’s. “... Right?”

Dallon hasn’t even thought about it yet. He doesn’t even know how, exactly, the whole ordeal works with two men. Women, he understands, though he’s never put it into practice. But inverted men don’t even show up in fuckbooks, and suddenly Dallon wonders where Brendon learned it all from.

“Dallon?”

And Brendon’s voice sounds small and unsure, so unlike Brendon that Dallon reaches for him, pulls him in for a quick embrace, and pressed together this way, Brendon’s arms around his waist, Dallon makes a decision.

“All right,” he mumbles into Brendon’s hair, “I don’t... okay.” He laughs softly. “It probably was going to be you anyway.”

Brendon moves back, finishes taking off his shirt, but Dallon grabs his arm, smiling. “Don’t just leave your clothes on the floor,” he says, kneeling to pick up his own discarded jacket. “The butler’s day starts at six, and he has his own key.”

“Oh,” Brendon says, hands dropping to his sides. “But does that... will that affect...”

“He’s not supposed to wake me until noon,” Dallon answers, taking Brendon’s jacket as well, not looking at his face. “And he’s not allowed to enter my bedroom until two.”

“Oh,” Brendon says again.

“So. Let’s go upstairs.”

As they ascend the staircase, Dallon can tell Brendon is buzzing. With questions, concerns, maybe eagerness. That’s okay. Dallon is suppressing all the same things, afraid that speaking them would break the moment, make one of them change his mind. He takes Brendon’s hand when they reach the top floor, opens the door on the right, and leads him inside. Brendon gasps, tries to pretend he didn’t, tries to pretend he’s unimpressed, but it’s futile; even Dallon is sometimes still impressed by his own room. Ivory walls, mahogany furniture painted gold and decorated with designs based on the discoveries in Egypt, a big window with burgundy curtains to match the bed dressing, and a large fireplace, coals aglow. Dallon squeezes Brendon’s hand and gestures towards the bed. Brendon takes a deep breath.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Dallon sets the jackets aside, removes his tie and unbuttoned shirt, trying to prove himself, though Brendon just gives him an odd look. “What’s wrong?”

Brendon pauses, glances around the room one more time. “I always forget why you are the way you are.” And Dallon isn’t sure what he means by that, but Brendon shakes his head, continues before he can ask, “This won’t be the end, will it?”

“End of what?”

“This.” Brendon swallows. “Whatever it is we’re doing.”

And Dallon is really confused, so he just says so, and after a moment, Brendon chuckles, shakes his head again.

“I guess it was a stupid question. Never mind.” Brendon straightens his shoulders, sits on the bed, slowly sinks into it with a look of surprise.

“It’s latex,” Dallon says, sitting next to him as Brendon flops onto his back and fidgets, “the latest thing.”

“It’s not a wood floor,” Brendon responds, putting a hand on Dallon’s shoulder and pulling him down next to him. He smiles almost shyly, traces a finger over the shape of Dallon’s jaw. “I haven’t slept in a real bed since... in years.”

Dallon can’t think of a response, because the only thing that confession makes him feel is an aching sadness, so he leans over Brendon to kiss him, sighing softly when Brendon responds with a soft noise, hooking his arm around Dallon’s neck. Kissing Brendon makes it easier to forget things like violence and poverty and the inability to stop either, so Dallon kisses him harder, and takes the initiative to finish unbuttoning Brendon’s shirt, pulling it open and running a finger down the center of Brendon’s chest. Brendon shivers, grins, doesn’t stop kissing him.

And it's nice to forget about the rest of the world for a moment, and focus on each other. Brendon seems to realize that there are no neighbors to worry about here, and he becomes much more vocal, much more responsive, and Dallon doesn't mind because he likes to know he's doing things right. They reach for each other's trousers at the same time, and Dallon realizes they've never been fully naked with each other before. He pulls back to see Brendon's face, trying to find reassurance.

"I don't know what we're doing," he whispers. Brendon grins.

"Don't worry, kitten. I'll teach you."

"No, I'm serious. If I'm... If we're going to, to do this," he blushes, has trouble articulating the words, "I don't know how it's done."

"I said I'd teach you, and I will. You're in good hands, babe. Just trust me.”

Dallon isn’t sure he’s comfortable with Brendon’s confidence; it digs in his brain, and sometimes he wonders where Brendon’s knowledge and ease with the subject comes from. But what choice does he have? He leans in for a brief kiss before standing, letting his trousers drop to the floor, though he pauses with his hands on his unbuttoned underwear. Brendon sits up, reaches over to put a hand over Dallon’s.

“I’ve seen your prick before, Dallon,” he says, almost chiding.

“This isn’t just...” Dallon almost argues, but he stops himself. Takes a deep breath. Drops his clothes to the floor, then stands up straight. He’s hard already, and he closes his eyes against Brendon’s gaze. So he’s surprised when a pair of hands grips his waist and pulls him close, a warm mouth tracing his hipbone, and he makes a soft, low noise. Brendon’s hands travel up his sides, down his back, before settling on his ass, and Dallon just blushes and gets harder, tries not to make too much noise, though Brendon doesn’t offer the same courtesy; obscene little sounds are escaping his mouth, still poised on Dallon’s hips and stomach.

“What are you doing down there?” Dallon asks finally, admittedly a little disappointed that Brendon has yet to be fully naked as well. Brendon places an affectionate little bite above Dallon’s navel, then raises his head, smiling. No. Smirking. That eyebrow is curved upwards, and Dallon’s heartbeat picks up.

“I just don’t want you to be too surprised,” Brendon says, moving one hand to grip Dallon’s cock, and Dallon’s breath hitches.

“When you do that?” Dallon asks.

“When I do this,” Brendon answers, sliding his lips over the head of Dallon’s cock.

So much for not being too surprised. This sort of thing has never occurred to Dallon; he’s pretty sure Ian showed him a picture of this once or twice, but he thought this was the kind of act that would be limited to pornography and bordellos. He never imagined that, at some point in his life, he’d be gripping a young man’s dark hair, almost pulling it, making strained, wanton noises as that man swallowed his prick, used his tongue in obscene ways that made Dallon choke on his breath and pull Brendon’s hair again, not that Brendon seems to mind. In fact, Brendon starts to hum around him, and Dallon makes a high-pitched hissing noise, then roughly whispers Brendon’s name, one hand moving to the back of Brendon’s head and tugging sharply. Brendon moans in response, and moves back; Dallon whimpers in protest, but stops when Brendon lies back on the bed and lifts his hips, tugging his trousers off. Dallon grips an empty trouser leg and tries to help, then reaches up to do the same with Brendon’s underwear, which makes the younger man laugh.

“You’re so eager!” He teases, and Dallon just crawls over him, delivers a searing kiss, groaning softly, appreciatively, when Brendon’s hand reaches down to stroke him again. He starts to return the favor, but Brendon stops, bats his hand away. “Don’t,” Brendon gasps, and there’s a sheen on his forehead, catching the moonlight when he turns his head a certain way. “Don’t, just... this is for your own good, let me...”

It's just another thing that Dallon doesn't understand, but he concedes, winds both hands under Brendon's torso, almost cradling him as they kiss again, trying to leave just enough room between them for Brendon to keep Dallon in his grip. It’s not too much longer before Dallon’s hips are wantonly jerking into Brendon’s fist, little noises escaping his mouth against Brendon’s neck.

“Bren..., Brendon,” he gasps, “I thought you wanted...”

“I do,” Brendon answers in a low, calm voice, “but I don’t want you to come too soon while we’re fucking.”

“I’m gonna... I’m really close, Bren,”

“I know,” Brendon smiles, kisses Dallon’s ear, “I know, kitten, and that’s okay. That’s the point. You gotta trust me.”

And Dallon does. All the way through it, while Brendon kisses his face, bites his neck, strokes him with a speedier rhythm every second, until Dallon buries his face in Brendon’s shoulder, and comes with a groan, with Brendon chuckling in his ear.

He’s still trying to catch his breath when Brendon starts pushing at his shoulder, muttering, “Move. Dallon. Get off and don’t go to sleep, we’re not done yet.”

Dallon exhales slowly and rolls off of Brendon, nestling into his down pillows, his eyes fluttering shut-- then a sharp sting on his hip, and his eyes dart open again to see Brendon withdrawing his hand. “Hey!”

“I _said_ don’t fall asleep!” Brendon uses a single finger to swipe some of Dallon’s mess from his stomach. “You’ll want to see this.”

Dallon wants to argue, petulantly, but instead he sits up and rubs at one eye. “See what?” Brendon doesn’t answer; instead, he rolls onto his stomach, twists his arm behind him, and suddenly Dallon is very awake. “So that’s how we... oh. Okay.”

“Okay?” Brendon has that finger inside himself to the knuckle, then out, then in, and Dallon swallows, moves closer to watch, feeling dizzy. “Dallon?”

“Yeah,” Dallon says absently, putting a hand on one of Brendon’s asscheeks, trying to see better. This never occurred to him either, but lord, he is already getting hard again, and when Brendon starts to slide in a second finger, making soft noises, Dallon’s mouth goes dry. “Shit. Brendon. _Brendon_ , can I try?”

And Brendon laughs, muffled by the pillow. “Criminy, Dallon,” he chuckles as he withdraws his hand, lifts his hips as Dallon moves between his legs. “They need to be wet first.”

Dallon pauses, then quickly sucks two fingers into his mouth. He uses his other hand to keep Brendon open as he swiftly presses both fingers inside. Brendon jumps, makes a noise.

“What?” asks Dallon, “did I do it wrong?”

“I know you’re eager, kitten,” Brendon answers, voice brimming with amusement, “but not so fast. This takes time.”

Dallon glances down at his fingers, buried inside Brendon, warm and tight, and a tremor of lust works down his spine. “What am I doing, exactly.”

“Stretching. Go slow. Spread your fingers, make sure there’s room.”

Sometimes Dallon wonders if Brendon is bored, or will get bored, considering how little Dallon knows, how much he still has to learn. But he does as he’s told, wants to please Brendon as best he can. The younger boy’s hips shift, start to move with Dallon, and those little noises start to come from the head of the bed again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Brendon says quickly, “add one more.”

“What?”

“Put another-... fuck,” Brendon thrusts back against Dallon’s hand, and Dallon never in a million years would have guessed that such a move could excite him so much, make him so hard. “Take them out, damnit, we’re gonna... just take them out.”

Disappointed, Dallon removes his fingers, almost pouting as Brendon shifts to lay on his back, even though, really, this sight is just as sexy as the one before: Brendon naked and flushed and hard, panting, lifting his hips, “Now put them back in,” he gasps, and Dallon gives him a surprised look.

“But I can’t see-”

“Put them in me. Three of them. Just do it.”

Dallon shivers, grips Brendon’s hip, fumbles a bit between his cheeks before three fingers slide in, slower this time, and Brendon’s head falls back, his mouth open. “Jiminy Cricket,” Dallon murmurs to himself, and Brendon shudders roughly, his cock leaking against his stomach.

“Dallon, listen,” and oh, is Dallon hanging on his every word, “listen, I need you to... to crook your fingers.”

“What?” Dallon frowns, not sure he heard correctly.

“Like you’re calling someone over. Leave them inside and do it, please.”

Dallon is so confused, but once again, he does as Brendon asks, hooking his fingers inside. Brendon is shifting on the mattress, his lower lip between his teeth, as if he’s on the edge of something, just waiting to be pushed or pulled, and after a moment of this, Dallon feeling more and more disappointed that he can’t do whatever it is that Brendon needs him to do, Brendon’s whole body suddenly jerks, his cock twitching, and he lets out a loud groan, “There, there, that’s it, fuck, you found it, now we’re getting somewhere.”

Dallon is confused, but his cock is still aching, so he repeats the previous action, inciting the same reaction from Brendon, who’s smiling now, his neck exposed. Continuing the motion inside Brendon, Dallon leans over him, unable to resist kissing, biting at that pale neck, and Brendon grips his shoulder, moaning roughly, his hips jerking against Dallon’s hand. And finally Dallon kisses his mouth, feels like it’s been ages, matches Brendon’s sounds with his own, before Brendon pushes him away, face flushed and eyes lidded.

“No, okay, take them out. Take them out and lie on your back. Wait,” Brendon sits up once Dallon’s fingers are no longer inside him. “Shit. It’s been too long, spit won’t...” He looks at Dallon on his back, seems on the verge of saying something else, but stops. Stares. His eyes darken as they take him in, and Brendon licks his lips, presses his palm flat against Dallon’s stomach. “Damn,” Brendon mutters, almost inaudible, though he says nothing more, just traces his hand up Dallon's torso. Dallon blushes, starts to ask what he's doing, but Brendon continues before he can: “What kind of hair oil do you use?”

“Um,” because who can think about that right now.

“Is it light?”

"It’s about medium,” Dallon swallows. “It’s Vaseline.”

“So it stays wet?”

“Yeah?”

Brendon hums, leans down to kiss him. “Perfect. Go get it.”

“Right now?” Dallon’s almost whining; this really doesn’t seem like the time.

“Yes,” and Brendon briefly curls around him, nibbles at his ear, “we’ll put it to _real_ good use.”

Dallon turns to catch Brendon’s lips with his own, starts to slide his hand around Brendon’s ass, trying to slip back in, but Brendon grabs his wrist and pulls away with a grin.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, kitten, but I promise. Go get the hair oil, and I can make this even better.”

Reluctantly, Dallon forces himself out of the bed and crosses the room to the chiffonier near the mirror, grabs his hair oil, then hands it to Brendon as he crawls back on the bed, remembering to lie flat on his back. Brendon smiles as he twists the cap off, pours some in the center of his palm. “If you like this,” he calmly says, sliding over to lean over Dallon’s body, “If you like fucking men, I mean... you might want to start stocking up.” He starts to stroke Dallon’s cock, his hand slick with oil; Dallon twitches, whimpers, reaches for Brendon’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Dallon pulls Brendon in for a hungry kiss, both hands on the back of his neck. Apparently, Brendon takes that a a yes, because he straddles Dallon’s hips, braces himself with a hand on Dallon’s chest. And Dallon looks up at him, still barely keeping up with what’s happening, but in this moment he realizes that this is really real, this is really happening: he’s going to lose his virginity to Brendon.

And his heart swells.

Brendon grips Dallon's prick once again, holds it steady, and Dallon's jaw drops as Brendon starts to sink down. It's tight and warm, and he's just sliding in, slowly, though Brendon pulls his hips up, until Dallon almost slides out, then pushes down again, further this time, his face red and scrunched, as if he's holding something back, and Dallon just tries to hang on, tries not to explode as he watches Brendon work his way down. Who would’ve guessed he would so enjoy watching things sliding in and out of a man's ass?

And then Brendon’s all the way down. Dallon is all the way inside him. Dallon is panting, making soft, high-pitched noises, and Brendon smiles, a bead of sweat running down his forehead, the bridge of his nose.

“How’s it feel?”

“Incredible,” Dallon manages to gasp; Brendon chuckles.

“I meant, losing your virginity.”

“I know.” Dallon puts his hands on Brendon’s hips, grips at him, shifts, thrusts upwards instinctively, helplessly. “I know, and it’s just... it’s swell.”

Brendon moves against him, makes a little noise. “‘Swell,’ Christ, Dallon.” And he puts both hands on Dallon’s chest, places his weight there, and starts to lift his hips, moving up and down again, rapidly, more fully, engulfing Dallon, then leaving him almost exposed, then again, and again, and Dallon leans his head back, stares at the canopy overhead, still gripping Brendon’s hips, and tries to focus. But his eyesight is fuzzy, and he can’t stop himself from groaning anymore, not when Brendon feels so good, and he’s not sure he can keep himself from coming for too much longer.

“Dallon,” says Brendon’s raspy voice, and Dallon thrusts up into him again, without thinking about it, then lifts his head. Brendon now only has one hand on his chest, is using the other to stroke himself in the same rhythm his hips are rising and falling to. Dallon watches, intent, still almost completely taken aback by how much he enjoys sights like Brendon’s cock sliding through his hand, or his own cock disappearing inside Brendon. After a moment, he wraps his own hand around Brendon’s busy one, following the younger boy’s movements, while his other hand slides down Brendon’s thigh, then up his side, fingers light. Brendon chokes on his breath, gives Dallon an odd look, digs his nails into Dallon’s chest, but Dallon doesn’t mind. After a moment, Dallon’s hand still curled over Brendon’s, Dallon huffs and shakes a damp lock of hair off his forehead.

“Let me,” he demands, his voice low.

And Brendon comes.

They’re both taken by surprise; Brendon speeds up for a moment, makes a strangled noise with his lower lip between his teeth, then stops, eyes wide, refusing to look at Dallon’s face. But Dallon just stares, slackjawed, his hand still on Brendon’s.

“Is that...” He prompts after a moment. Brendon takes a deep breath and shakes his head.

“No. No, no, I’ll...sorry, I was too... just give me a moment...”

True to his word, Brendon starts moving again a few seconds later, his cock limp but his skin still flushed. Dallon thinks he’s beautiful with his hips moving in that slow circle, rising and falling in shallow thrusts. But.

“I want to see.”

“See what?”

“It. I.” Dallon swallows. “I want to see it go in you.”

Brendon shudders roughly, then laughs. “Christ, Dallon,” he murmurs, smiling, then leans back with his hands on Dallon’s thighs, and oh yes, this is much better. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“You can’t talk,” Dallon counters with a soft grunt, his hips thrusting gently upwards, seeking more heat, more friction, just more, more, more, until he falls over the edge too, with a quick shout, and Brendon rides him through it, then leans over to gently kiss his face. Dallon soaks it all in as he catches his breath, eyes closed, and Brendon climbs off him, lays next to him, their shoulders touching.

“Yeah?” Brendon prompts, after a few moments silence.

“Brendon,” Dallon answers, lips barely moving, “you’re the cat’s pajamas.”

And Brendon laughs. Thanks him. And Dallon falls asleep.

 

\------

 

It’s still dark out when Dallon blinks awake, so he can’t have been asleep for long. He still has that heavy, sated feeling in his limbs, but a chilly wind whips over him, and he realizes he fell asleep, naked, on top of his blanket. As he starts to shift to nestle under the blankets, he notices Brendon, sitting up on the other side of the bed with his head in his hands.

“Bren,” Dallon says with a smile, pleased that he stayed, “aren’t you cold? Come on,” he pulls the blankets up to his chest, then reaches for Brendon’s arm, “we can share.”

Brendon turns his head to look at Dallon, his eyebrow raised. Then he sighs, shakes his head, but takes Dallon’s offer and joins him under the blankets. Dallon slides his hand down to interlace their fingers, and something flickers in Brendon’s face.

“Dallon,” he says after a moment, squeezing his hand, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Brendon gives him a strained smile. “Ruining you.”

Dallon frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re not innocent anymore. That’s what I liked so much about you, and yet it’s the first thing I take away.” Brendon laughs, puts his free hand over one eye. “I’m such a sap, I always do this...”

Dallon is quiet for a moment, watching him. “How... well I don’t really know what you mean by ‘innocent’ but... just because we made whoopee doesn’t mean you took it from me.”

And Brendon laughs, softly. “‘Made whoopee’, Christ, Dallon, maybe I’m overreacting.” He grins at him, but after a moment, the grin starts to fade. “No. No, this is how it ends. That’s just how it for pansies.”

Something seizes in Dallon’s chest, his limbs going numb, and he squeezes Brendon’s hand, moves closer to him. “But I don’t want it to end.”

“It will, though, that’s what you don’t understand,” Brendon sighs. “The world just doesn’t work that way.”

“It does for me,” Dallon insists, and Brendon raises an eyebrow. “Look, in... in my society, in _my_ world, it’s... it’s trendy. It’s fashionable.”

“Corsets were fashionable ten years ago, now they’re not. Just because, for the moment, your friends might indulge us doesn’t mean they will forever. I mean, how many of your pursuits, male or female, have they seen you go through?”

Several, honestly. But. “None that I’ve pursued as long as I’ve pursued you.” Brendon frowns. “It’s true. Even Ian...” Dallon pauses, remembering what happened earlier, that he doesn’t know where Ian is, “Ian would... tell you the same. I’m so keen on you, he’s worried about me. But he hasn’t asked me to stop.” Not in those words, anyway.

Brendon doesn’t look like he believes him. “This was a bad idea,” he says, “I shouldn’t... I shouldn’t have fucked you, I shouldn’t have let you...” he stops himself, chewing on his lower lip, and Dallon is getting kind of tired of Brendon not finishing his thoughts.

“Let me what?”

Brendon exhales slowly, sits up and doesn’t look at Dallon. “Let you start getting under my skin.”

And Dallon’s heart expands again, and he can’t keep himself from smiling. “Brendon.”

“I know better. I know better than to do these things, but the first chance I get, I do it anyway...” Brendon is almost talking to himself, so Dallon tugs on his hand to get his attention. “What?”

“If you like me, that’s okay. We already talked about this. You wouldn’t be here, in my home, if I didn’t like you.”

“But it can’t last.”

“Brendon!” Dallon rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry about-”

“I used to be a whore.”

Dallon stops talking. Stares at Brendon, who shrinks slightly, withdraws his hand, looks ashamed. “I... I did. When I lived in New Orleans. It was... it was good money, and a bed, and for a homeless kid, it was hard to say no.” He stops, swallows. “Well. I mean, I started out as... as the pianist. In the salon. While the men waited for someone to be free, I played music to entertain them.”

“How old were you?” Dallon asks, his mouth dry; this can’t be happening.

“Fourteen. It was just before the war ended.” He stops, glances at Dallon, lowers his eyes. “A man had been waiting in the salon for an hour, so he asked for me, and the madame said okay. And then, somehow, men found out, and I was always busy. She... she had to go recruit a second boy to satisfy demand. She never thought that young boys would prove so profitable.” He laughs softly, runs a hand through his hair. “I was there five years. Then the other boy caught syphilis, and a house down the street got raided, so she panicked and kicked both of us out.”

Dallon is panicking now as well, his hand over his mouth. “Then... you didn’t...”

“Catch a pox? No. Thank God. I was lucky.” Brendon takes a deep breath, then looks at Dallon again. “But you want to kick me out anyway.”

The thought had occurred to Dallon: maybe he’s old-fashioned, but that’s the kind of thing you tell a person _before_ you talk them into having sex with you. He was aware that Brendon was not a virgin, was fairly experienced with men, but prostitution is a completely different thing. Especially if Brendon was as popular as he said.

But. He doesn’t do it anymore. Dallon’s shoulders sag as he tries to figure out what he’s feeling. “You... so you only did it because you were homeless?”

Brendon nods slowly, rubbing his face. “I ran away from home.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a coward.”

Dallon furrows his brow. “I don’t understand.”

Brendon holds his breath for a moment, then exhales slowly. “I grew up on a farm out west. The youngest of five. Two brothers, two sisters.”

Now Dallon is holding his breath.

“When America entered the Great War, both of my brothers signed up. They... they were so excited, and proud, we were all so proud, but... but we got a letter at the door. After just a few months. My mother and sisters were devastated, but... God, it wasn’t even another month before we got the second letter. My mother couldn’t stop crying. My, my oldest sister would sit at the piano and not even play, she’d just sit there, without moving, and... I was terrified. I was utterly tormented by the fact that both of my brothers were dead, and my family would never be happy again.” Brendon runs both hands through his hair, and Dallon just listens. “So. I ran from it. I ran from the terror and ended up...” He laughs hollowly, “ended up a whore in New Orleans. Learned a lot about sex and inverts and jazz, and then I came here. Tonight... it’s strange, because I haven’t kept up with my family. I send unaddressed postcards home every once in a while, but... tonight, at the club, I kept thinking...” he shakes his head, pulls at the covers, “about my mother. What would she do if her last son was dead? No hope of ever seeing me again.” He pauses to rub at his face before he looks at Dallon. “Look... It’s stupid, I told you that shit about my being a whore in the first place in the hopes it would scare you away, but... in case it doesn’t. If it makes it better. You’re the first man I’ve fucked since I arrived in Chicago. Two years ago.”

It does help. A little. But that’s not what Dallon is focused on right now.

“My brother went to war too,” he says, and Brendon looks at him.

“I didn’t think rich boys had to go to war. You didn’t.”

“I was too young for the draft. But my oldest brother, he signed up ‘cause he wanted to fight for his country. My dad really believes in responsibility, and ethics. Doing the right thing even if no one else will. _Especially_ if no one else will. He really pushed that onto Weston, because he was going to take over the company. And that’s why Weston wanted to go. It was the right thing to do.”

“Did he come home?” Brendon asks in a quiet voice. Dallon freezes, can’t look at him; he’s never told anyone about this. His close friends know he doesn’t talk about his family, New York, the war. He doesn’t like to remember. He tries as hard as he can to forget.

“Yes,” he answers stiffly, “but he wasn’t the same. I... I probably could’ve ignored the missing leg. Gotten used to it. But his mind was gone. Shell shock.” Dallon shudders, remembers waking up in the middle of the night because his brother wouldn’t stop screaming, dinners where he would sit, silent, staring straight ahead and not moving. “It scared me. He used to be... the greatest man I knew, after my father. But I couldn’t stand seeing him... like that. Then...” He rubs his temples with his thumbs, laughs softly. “This is the worst part. I heard my father talking about me taking over the company. My other brother is a pastor, so I’m the only choice. I studied business in college, but I didn’t do very well, I barely went to class, I have no idea how I would run an entire company. So. I came back here. I ran away. I haven’t been to New York since Weston came home.”

Brendon watches him for a long moment, then laughs. “We’re awful. Cowardly shitheads running from our families, trying to forget by drowning in hooch and jazz...”

That’s their whole generation, really. Men and women too young to fight the Great War, now trying to pretend it never happened, partying and drinking and playing games, establishing themselves as rebellious youth when their families and neighbors had died to give them the opportunity to do so. Hedonism supported and spawned by heroism.

Dallon sighs, lays back down and reaches for Brendon’s arm. “Bren,” he says, “I don’t care you were a whore if you don’t care that I’m a shallow coward.”

Brendon lays next to him and nestles into his bare shoulder. “You’re more than that.”

“So are you. Don’t try to end this... whatever it is, because I want it. And I always get what I want.”

“I’ve noticed.” Brendon kisses his shoulder, and they lapse into silence, though, as he drifts back into sleep while the sky outside starts to lighten, Dallon can feel Brendon’s smile against his skin.


	6. Changes

Something about Dallon and Ian’s friendship changed the night of the shooting at the Firefly. When Dallon woke up the next day, he slipped out of bed, away from Brendon, pulled his underwear and a dressing gown on, and ran downstairs to call Ian’s house on the telephone in the kitchen... only to be told that Ian was waiting for him in the drawing room. He felt the same sort of surprise he had experienced when Ian admitted he worried about him: Ian didn’t just worry about Dallon’s affairs with Brendon, he worried about _Dallon_ , as a person. It almost made Dallon feel guilty for setting aside his own concerns for Ian’s safety and focusing on Brendon’s advances instead.

So for the past week, as much as he’s been trying to see Brendon, Dallon has also been going out of his way to spend more time with Ian; today, they enjoyed a late lunch at a restaurant downtown, while Brendon’s at rehearsal.

“I guess you’ve heard about the Firefly’s Halloween party on Friday,” Ian says, his mouth full of apple pie. Dallon smirks.

“Yeah, but I heard it from Cassie first. Really!” he insists when Ian gives him an unconvinced look. “She’s still trying to get me and Lucy together. Thought it would be a fun date.”

“It would,” Ian offers, unhelpfully, “especially since Brendon will be onstage the whole night.”

“Brendon doesn’t like Lucy. Thinks she’s a worker.”

“No surprise there,” Ian grins, taking another bite. “But just ‘cause he has to perform that night, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be dancing.”

Dallon thinks that over for a moment, sipping at his coffee, then sighs. “Fair enough. But, this has to be our last date.” Ian raises his eyebrow, so like Brendon that Dallon has to laugh. “Not _ours_ , but me and Lucy. I can’t... whatever I’m doing with Brendon, and have her as my girl at the same time. Or thinking she could be.”

“You wouldn’t be the first man to take a lover,” Ian comments, and sometimes Dallon isn’t sure who’s side he’s on. “Especially in that situation.”

“I’m just old-fashioned, I guess. It’s not right to make her think she has a chance when she doesn’t.”

Ian stops mid-bite and lowers his fork, blinking at Dallon. “She doesn’t?”

And Dallon thinks back to that night, what Brendon confessed, and what Brendon knows that Ian doesn’t. Something in his heart contracts, then expands, and he smiles, shakes his head. “No. She doesn’t.”

Ian sighs, his shoulders dropping. “If you’re sure.”

 

\------

 

Jon is nervous in a way that Dallon has never seen before. The usually calm and impassive Jon won’t stop fixing his hair, adjusting the mask on his face, fiddling with his cufflinks. Sitting at the bar with such an unusually antsy Jon is starting is make Dallon tense as well, even if he doesn’t fully understand why: some big name visitors are at tonight’s Halloween celebration. That’s typical for the Firefly on any night, so Jon’s nerves are strange.

“It’s not just some celebrity or politician,” Jon says when Dallon asks again, as a very busy Zack finally gives them their drinks. “It’s the Terrible Gennas.”

Dallon chokes on his gin. “The South Side bosses?”

Jon nods, wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Papa said they’d been coming down here, but this is the first time I’ve seen them. Angelo and Mike and Antonio are all here.”

“Why would they come here? They supply half the town. More than, if what Brendon said about them selling in North Side territory is true.”

“Well, it’s a great joint, isn’t it?” Jon finally grins, though it’s shaky. “Great party... I guess even mob bosses gotta relax at some point.”

Dallon remembers the shooting just a week and a half ago, a random hit on Genna territory, not even needing their presence to create danger. “If they ever can relax.”

Jon starts to respond, but is cut off by a surprise kiss from Cassie, who is a rather darling Egyptian princess, her eyes dark with kohl. Lucy, dressed as a butterfly, follows close behind, but preserves her dignity by merely reaching for Dallon’s hand. Dallon’s gaze darts to Brendon, at his piano on-stage, then quickly back to Lucy, who is beaming rather prettily.

“Wanna dance?” He asks as the orchestra strolls into a ragtime flair.

“You bet!” She answers, and drags him to the floor.

Lucy is kind of fun, especially on the dance floor, and Dallon can kind of remember now why he liked to flirt with her: mainly because she responded so eagerly, wanted him to like her so badly. She’s nineteen and beautiful, with her sheer lavender wings and round green eyes, and as he spins her under his arm, he feels a little guilty. They were never together in any sense, were hardly friends until she started appearing at his parties, but she is stuck on him. And tonight may be a cruel sort of kindness, seeing how excited she is that he hasn’t run off on her like he did last time, all the while knowing that he has to turn her down for good.

Even before he met Brendon, he never intended to marry Lucy. It’s only right that she start to understand that.

Dallon takes her back to the bar at the end of the song, fixes her headdress for her as she orders a drink, then glances back at the stage. The orchestra is dressed all in white, a jarring difference from their usual black ties and tails, and Brendon is hopping at his piano, full of the kind of energy and charisma the Firefly’s patrons have come to expect from him.

“He’s good,” Lucy says, taking a sip of her drink and making a face.

Dallon sighs, “He is.”

She smiles slightly and leans against the bar. “Ain’t he the one that was at your party a while ago?”

“Yeah. Where do you think Jon found him?”

They’re silent for a few moments more, then Lucy scoots closer to him, leans against his shoulder. “It’s kinda funny, but I was starting to think you didn’t like me.”

“Why?” Because he had ignored her and ditched her, of course, but she’s too polite to say so. “Listen, I’m sorry-”

“It’s okay,” She says brightly, grinning at him over the rim of her teacup, “Cassie told me to be patient with you.”

And Dallon really doesn’t want to know what kind of reasoning Cassie came up with as to why Lucy should be patient with him. “No, no, I mean, I’m sorry if I ever led you to believe that we could be anything more than friends."

Her smile drops like a stone. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not looking to get married, so I'm sorry if Cassie told you I was, because she should know better. She shouldn’t have talked behind my back, but... but I shouldn’t have acted like I was interested if I wasn’t."

A scandalized and shamed Lucy slams her empty teacup on the table, eyes darting like an animal in a cage. "Arent... Aren't you close to thirty? Isn't it about time for you to take a walk down the middle aisle, that's what Cassie said."

"I'm twenty-six, that's not _that_ close to thirty. Cassie isn't my mother. Look," he sighs; she's on the verge of tears already. "Lucy, you're a good girl. And you're too good for a palooka like me."

"You're... You're damn right!" she snaps, shaking her head as her voice breaks. "Christ, I need a smoke." But when Dallon reaches into his jacket, pulls out his cigarette case, she pushes away from the bar and runs to Jon instead, who hands her a cigarette as Cassie pulls her aside. Once they’re a safe distance away, Jon approaches Dallon with an understanding look.

"I'm going to get this out of the way while Cassie's gone: you did the right thing."

"Really?"

Jon nods quickly. "I might say different when Cassie gets back but, really, if you're not interested in her, it's for the best that you told her before she took it too far."

"Well. Thanks, I guess."

"So now, what you need to do is go talk to Brendon."

Dallon lifts his head, turns to look at Jon, who turns to the bar and doesn't return his gaze. "Why?"

Jon shrugs. "You should just go talk to him."

"What do you know?" Dallon demands, pushing away from the bar. "Jon, what are you getting at?"

"Nothing," Jon answers calmly, turning to look at him. "I only know what I see."

"If anybody's said-"

"Not what I hear. People say a lot of strange things, you know, and not all of them are true. But I know what I see. And I see an unhappy Brendon. And I've seen that the two of you are close. So you should go see what's eating him."

Dallon glances at the stage, where Brendon and Greta are exiting stage right, chatting inaudibly as the band picks up on it's own. Cassie and Lucy are still against the wall, and they look angry where Brendon doesn't, at least not to Dallon's eyes.

"I can just go backstage?" Dallon asks softly. Jon nods, then stands up straight, frantically looks behind Dallon, then over his own shoulder.

"Yes, just make sure the Gennas don't see how you get back there."

"Why?"

"Security," Jon says stiffly. "They're not looking, so go now."

Dallon obeys, pushing his way through the crowd of masked men and ladies, until he pushes himself through the stage door, and Greta and Brendon are on the other side. Greta looks surprised to see him; Brendon crosses his arms and looks away.

There's the anger Jon was talking about.

"You're not dressed up!" Greta comments. Dallon glances down at his suit, rolls his eyes.

"Jon gave me a mask to get in, but I think I left it at the bar. You're not really dressed up either, since the whole orchestra had to wear white."

"I'm an angel," Greta insists, spreading her arms to show off her long, flowing sleeves, not unlike Lucy's. "The whole orchestra is a band of angels tonight."

And Dallon's bored. "I want to talk to Brendon. Alone."

Greta frowns, turns to Brendon. "I told you he was arrogant. Acts like he can boss everyone around..."

But Brendon stares at the floor as he says, "It's okay, Greta. I want to talk to him too."

She hesitates, then sends a glare in Dallon's direction. "I'm going to get a fruit cocktail then," she says as she starts out the door. "I'll be in the dining room if you need me, Brendon."

Once she's gone, Dallon huffs, "How do you put up with her?"

"She's sweet to me," Brendon answers without looking up.

"Sweet _on_ you, more like," Dallon snaps, unsure where his own anger his coming from. "She called me arrogant! That's a laugh, coming from her."

Brendon uncrosses his arms, his brow furrowed. "Listen to you! What right do you have to be jealous of Greta after I saw you with that _chippy_!"

Dallon blinks. "You mean Lucy?" and Brendon rolls his eyes, looks utterly disgusted.

"Yes, her. The one Cassie is so eager to marry you off to, I saw you drinking with her and dancing with her and smiling at her," and there's something vicious in Brendon's voice, something dark in his eyes, and Dallon starts to feel a little nervous. "I guess I just helped you cross that first hurdle, right? Sleep with a man a few times, get your confidence up, then run back to your girl, ready to bed her." Brendon scoffs and shakes his head. "This is what I was trying to tell you. This is how it always ends."

"What the devil are you talking about?!" Dallon responds. "Yeah, I danced with her. I can't exactly whisk you off stage and dance with you, can I? You expect me to sit at the bar with Zack all night while everyone else has the time of their lives? How is that fair?"

“How is it fair that I get to sit up here and play the song you romance her to?!"

“Jiminy _Cricket_ , Brendon, I wasn't romancing her!"

"Stop lying!" and Dallon takes a step back, because Brendon's voice is raised and his face is flushed and if Dallon didn't know better, he'd think Brendon might be on the verge of tears. "Just stop. You can dance with anyone you like, it doesn't matter. We’re not together, this... experiment doesn’t mean anything, so why should I give a damn."

Dallon's lips part as his heart shrinks in on itself, a surprising, seizing sort of pain. "That's not true."

"Don't be a sap," Brendon says harshly, turning his head away. "I told you. Sex is how it always ends. That’s the peak of the queer relationship. So go ahead! Dance with as many girls as you like! Take them home if you want, I don’t care. You'll come back to me, but you'll never stay with me, because that's not how it works.”

“Then how does it work,” Dallon demands, frustrated. “Maybe you should have mentioned _that_ before you started visiting my bed every other night.”

Brendon glares at him. “You find a pretty tomato and you marry her, and I’m just an urge you satisfy once a month. That’s how it goes,” he sneers. “Stupid me. I don’t know why I expected you to be different.”

“You _are_ stupid, because I _am_ different!” Dallon yells, and a trumpet player on-stage glances their way, but Dallon doesn’t care. “I just told Lucy I couldn’t see her anymore! I _chose_ you, and she’s been crying on Cassie’s shoulder for the past half hour ‘cause I told her I wouldn’t marry her. And!” he snaps as Brendon’s face starts to fall, “and if you think for two minutes that I wouldn’t give up every _cent_ I own just to sweep you out there and dance with you without anybody getting in the way, then you’re the saddest fool I ever met!”

They stare at each other for a long moment, Dallon’s fists clenched, Brendon’s eyes wide. And Brendon says, “You chose _me_?”

“Yeah, but apparently that doesn’t matter,” Dallon snaps bitterly, “because we don’t mean anything to each other. Because that’s not the way it works. Right?”

Brendon sighs, looks hurt and ashamed, and good, because Dallon is hurt too, beyond what he could have imagined. “Dallon-”

“Don’t come over tonight,” Dallon cuts him off, turning to leave.

“Dallon!”

“Don’t come tomorrow either. I’ll see you when I see you.” And he shuts the stagedoor behind him, makes his way back through the crowd, lifts a hand to Jon by the bar, then leaves through the front entrance. Outside, he pauses to light a cigarette, and as he takes that first drag, he wonders if this is how Lucy felt, this hollow ache in his chest, his stomach clenching and eyes burning. Maybe he deserves this, in some ways.

He exhales smoke, pushes his emotions away, and makes his way to the streetcar. Home is waiting, and Dallon is pretty good at running from his feelings by now.

At home, he finds an envelope on the kitchen counter, the window in the corner showing his full name. Fear rips up his spine; it can only be from his parents, but why send a telegram? Why not just respond to his letter? He tears the envelope open, pulls the yellow paper out and holds it in shaking fingers.

 

COME HOME FOR WESTON. DON’T WAIT. LOVE.  
=MAMA 

 

“Shit,” he murmurs to himself, dropping the note to the counter as he presses the back of his hand to his forehead. It could be anything. Weston could be dying, or he could just miss his brother. He’s pretty sure his mother would’ve stated it outright if something was wrong, but she’s always been somewhat... manipulative when she had to be, and she has also always liked to try and pluck Dallon’s heartstrings to try and get him to come home.

Dallon runs a hand through his hair and glances at the note. If something actually is wrong, if Weston dies and he doesn’t get to say goodbye, he would hate himself for the rest of his life.

After a long moment, he slides the note aside and heads upstairs to bed. It’s too much, after tonight. He’s just too tired to think about it right now.

Despite his exhaustion, he still doesn’t sleep.

 

\------

 

Several nights later, Ian stops by, dressed to the nines, with Viola at his side.

“We’re heading to the Firefly, thought we’d stop to get you,” he says.

Dallon thinks of Brendon, how it would be nice to see him, maybe talk to him; he went with Jon a few days after Halloween, spent most of his time talking to Zack at the bar, and didn’t so much as say hello to Brendon, though he knows that, with the stage as his vantage point, Brendon knew he was there.

Brendon had said it doesn’t mean anything. Dallon is still hurt.

“No, thank you,” he says, and Ian’s surprise is almost funny, until it becomes concern.

“Are you all right?” he asks in a softer voice, shooing Viola back to the pavement. “Jon said Brendon was in a bad state too...”

Jon and the things he sees. Dallon rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Enjoy yourself.” And he closes the front door before Ian can say anymore.

He spends the night curled up in bed, the fire making comforting cracking noises, reading _This Side of Paradise_ , and thinking about home.

 

\------

 

Jon is the one who drags him to the Firefly again, but it’s Spencer who convinces him to talk to Brendon. “Greta is furious that I’m asking for your help,” he says smoothly as he hands Dallon a teacup full of gin. “But she’s also furious that Brendon won’t talk to her about what’s wrong.”

“Why does everyone come to me about Brendon?” Dallon asks, fiddling with his tie. Spencer strokes his beard, almost condescendingly.

“Why, indeed.”

Dallon frowns. “I won’t say it.”

“Then don’t. It’s no skin off my nose. But Brendon looks as unhappy as you do, and if you don’t want to talk to him to see if both of you can feel better, then you should talk to him just to irritate Greta.”

It takes a few seconds, but Dallon finally grins. Chuckles. “Okay. All right, let’s go.”

Spencer escorts him backstage, where Greta is trying to get Brendon to share a slice of cake with her, petting his hair and neck, and Dallon can acknowledge his jealousy now, though Brendon seems more agitated than comforted by her affection, and that makes it easier. She notices Dallon first and frowns.

“Oh, look, it’s you,” she says in a syrupy-sweet voice that’s completely at odds with her expression. “Here to cause more trouble?”

“Greta,” Spencer says in a warning tone, though she doesn’t seem too fond of that either. “Let’s go to the dining room.”

She stands, brushes dust off her dress, adjusts the feather in her headband. “I’m getting rather tired of having to leave the room every time these two want to have a conversation. It’s not as if nobody knows.”

“Greta!” Spencer snaps, harsher this time. “That’s beside the point and you know it, stop being petty.” She looks ready to argue again, but Brendon stands as well and puts a hand on her shoulder, whispers something in her ear, and her expression softens. She turns to put a hand on Brendon’s face, smiling gently, almost maternally, then nods at Spencer and leads the way to the dining room. Dallon watches, jealous and confused.

“What did you say to her?”

Brendon just shrugs. “I’m glad you came. You look tired.”

Dallon rubs self-consciously under his left eye. “Haven’t been sleeping well.” He pauses, then glances at Brendon. “I pass the time reading those books you sold me.”

It takes a moment, but a smile darts across Brendon’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. They’re jake, I guess.”

Brendon shakes his head, then sighs, reaches for Dallon’s hand. “Look, I’m sorry about what I said... I was upset and...” He stops himself, shrugs, looks at the floor. “I miss you, is all.”

Dallon wants to be angry. He wants to tell Brendon to take it all back and maybe go to hell and he doesn’t need to be messing around with some queer who doesn’t know what he wants when Dallon’s brother is in New York, maybe sick, maybe dying, and Dallon can’t even get up the courage to respond with a telegram of his own to ask what’s wrong.

But instead he reaches for Brendon. Kisses him. Touches his face and shoulders and hair, reminds himself that this lighter feeling exists, and it exists with Brendon. When he pulls away, Brendon looks surprised, his face flushed pink.

“Are you all right?” He asks. Dallon shrugs.

“I guess I missed you too.” And he has questions to ask, wants to know if the things Brendon said are true, but for some reason, he’s afraid to leave himself that vulnerable, and instead says, “Jon says that that the South Side leaders have been coming by a lot.”

Brendon looks disappointed, but responds anyway. “They like it here. They complain about the food a lot, but they like the hooch, and they like the music.”

Dallon stares at him, and Brendon refuses to meet his gaze. “They come down here for the music?”

Brendon takes a moment to collect his thoughts, staring at the empty stage. “Mike Genna really likes me and Greta. He and Antonio sought us out in the dining room, to compliment us.” He swallows. “Mike’s probably looking for me right now. Wants me to sing while he eats or something. To sweeten the meal.”

And Dallon guesses that this has happened before, Brendon and Greta singing just for these underground thugs, unrepentant murderers, and he thinks of that night with the North Side gunman, of not knowing where Ian was, and it’s because of men like this, men who try to pretend they’ve done no wrong and come in here and ask for a simple song sung by lovely voices.

“Isn’t Mike Genna known as ‘The Devil’ on the streets?” Dallon asks, and Brendon pales.

“You’d better not let him hear you calling him that.”

And it’s so hypocritical, so wrong, and Dallon suddenly feels sick to his stomach. He’s played up here for years, drank their gin and enjoyed their jazz, completely ignoring the kind of society that his playgrounds were built by, that they depended on to survive. He reaches for Brendon’s hand, laces their fingers, something heavy settling in his chest as he says, “I don’t want you to work here anymore.”

It’s a dumb thing to say, the wrong thing to say, and he knows it even before Brendon draws his hand back, gives Dallon a dumbfounded look. “Says you!” he snaps, pink starting to rise in his forehead. “You know I want to play jazz, you’re the whole reason I’m here, and now you just want me to leave it behind?! Are you off your _nuts_?”

Dallon puts his face in his hands for a moment, feeling befuddled and a little dizzy, then slides his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath. “Never mind. Okay? Just. Forget I said it.”

Brendon’s presses his hand to Dallon’s forehead, the back of his neck; his dark eyes are full of concern. “Are you not feeling well, kitten?”

And Dallon laughs softly, to hear that nickname again. “I... My head’s kinda cloudy. I think I’m a little zozzled,” he lies; he only had one drink, and didn’t finish the one Spencer brought him. “So I’ll just go home and lie down.” He hesitates, then leans down to press his forehead to Brendon’s. “You’re welcome to join me when you’re done here.”

And Brendon smiles.

 

\------

 

For the next week, Dallon spends more time at home, reading; he’s having trouble reconciling his old memories of drinking and dancing at the Firefly with the knowledge that ruthless murderers frolic at the same location, are the foundation of every club in town. And Brendon is a little disappointed when Dallon says he may not come see him perform anymore, but it doesn’t stop him from stopping by once the club closes, where he and Dallon can do as they please in Dallon’s bedroom.

Tonight, Dallon is comfortable under his grandmother’s quilt in the drawing room, reading _The Time Machine_ , when there’s a rapid knock at the door. He glances at the clock, and it’s far too early to be Brendon, so it must be Ian or Jon or Patrick, trying to collect him to go out. He rolls his eyes as he pulls his dressing gown on and goes to answer the door.

But on the other side is Brendon.

“What are you doing here?” Dallon asks, even as he steps aside to let Brendon in. “The club’s only been open for an hour... what’s wrong?” Because Brendon’s worrying his lower lip, wringing his hands, his face pale.

“They shot O’Banion.”

“What?”

“The Gennas. They put a hit on Dean O’Banion, and he was shot in his flower shop this morning.” Brendon runs his hands through his hair, then gestures, “Two in the chest, two in the neck, two in the face. That’s what Mike said.” He gives a soft, shaky sigh, his shoulders trembling. “So the North Side boss is dead. And all of the Terrible Gennas and most of their gang were there tonight to celebrate.”

And Dallon isn’t sure what all this means, he doesn’t understand the details, but he knows that there will be retaliation. The North Side will get their revenge, then the South Side will insist on revenge of their own. “Jiminy Cricket,” he murmurs, and Brendon laughs weakly.

“I was too afraid to stay. I don’t know, the idea of celebrating... that. Feels too much like I’m part of them.”

“Brendon, you should seriously think about quitting,” Dallon says again, still aware that it’s stupid, but he’s frightened and he means it. “You’re calling mob bosses by name, like they’re friends! Just because he likes to hear you sing?”

“Dallon!” Brendon snaps, his voice rough, and Dallon drops his arms. “Can’t you just... hold me? For Christ’s sake!”

Dallon licks his lips. Wants to. But Brendon’s words from Halloween still ring in his ears sometimes, and it makes his heart freeze in his chest. “But... you said that’s not what we are.”

Brendon stares at him, eyes wide. “ _Damn_ you, Dallon,” he mutters, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Dallon’s waist. After a moment, Dallon returns the gesture, rests his head on top of Brendon’s, surrenders to the role Brendon needs him to play tonight.


	7. Without You

Spencer skips town two days after the O’Banion murder. The only person he tells is Brendon, giving him the name of the club in New York City that Spencer plans to work at. And Brendon all but moves into Dallon’s home; since he’s spending most nights in Dallon’s bed, he starts eating supper there after work, then breakfast there in the morning, then bringing clothes by to make it easier to change before rehearsal. Neither of them asked, neither of them comments on it, though Dallon still feels unsteady about where they stand. His mother’s letter still weighs on his mind as well, though two weeks later, he still hasn’t contacted his family to see what’s wrong. His mother said not to wait; he’s too afraid of what he might hear to bother listening.

Brendon and Jon manage to talk him into going to the Firefly a few nights after Spencer’s disappearance. Brendon just wants to have dinner with him, Jon suggests making it a group outing, and it’s hard for Dallon to say no when even Cassie, who hasn’t spoken to him much since he turned Lucy down, starts haranguing him about going out more and having a little fun.

“I’ve figured out how to have fun at home,” he insists when Cassie starts to razz him at the dinner table, and Greta, sitting on Brendon’s other side, scoffs.

“The only way to have fun at home is to throw a house party,” she says with a cocky smile, placing a napkin in her lap. “And I’m guessing that’s not what you’re doing.” Dallon pouts, starts to respond, but is cut off by Brendon:

“He reads!”

And when everyone looks surprised, it’s not because Brendon knows this. For the past few days, their friends have made no secret of the fact that they know Dallon and Brendon’s secret. Even Pete has hinted that he knows, and Dallon thinks that the only reason Cassie still speaks to him is because Jon told her. It’s trendy to cross the socially acceptable sexual boundaries, so no one acts as if they mind. No, the reason everyone is surprised is because no one ever took Dallon for a reader. Hell, even Dallon didn’t know he could enjoy a quiet night at home as much as he does.

“I didn’t even know you could read,” Ian comments dryly, and everyone laughs while Dallon rolls his eyes.

“I just... need the quiet time, I guess,” he says in a low voice, staring at his plate. “I’m tired of gin joints. Or I’m just tired. I’m not sure.”

The table is quiet, staring at him, before Ian clears his throat. “Cassie, Jon says you just learned how to make... what was it? Some kind of fried bread?”

“Beignets!” Cassie provides, “yes, from our new cook!”

And conversation moves forward. Dallon listens, but doesn’t participate.

By the time the waiters bring out cake and coffee, Dallon is bored. He wants to go home and finish reading _Babbitt_ , hopefully before Brendon finishes performing for the night. He doesn’t touch his cake, doesn’t participate in conversation, though Brendon and Ian both try to engage him.

Then there’s a clatter near the dining room entrance, followed by shouts, and a woman’s scream. Throughout the room, people jump to their feet, and amidst the worried, confused noise, a shot rings out, brings a ceiling panel crashing down by the door, and Dallon goes numb, lets Brendon grab his wrist and follows blindly as everyone starts to scream. Jon ushers them through a hidden side panel into a tiny room; in the chaos, they go unnoticed. Cassie and Greta slide to the floor near the back of the room, and Dallon has never seen the self-assured Greta look so vulnerable. Jon slides the panel shut, reaches over Ian to take Cassie’s hand, and in the dark, Brendon wraps himself around Dallon, who doesn’t have to be prompted to respond this time, burying his face in Brendon’s thick hair.

The noise from the dining room is muffled, but they can still make out a man’s voice demanding to know where Angelo is, and Dallon feels a rush of anger, from his stomach to his throat; this was what he was afraid of. O’Banion’s death opening a floodgate of revenge-seekers, trying to make good with whoever the new boss might be. His friends are in danger that they don’t have to expose themselves to; they razzed him for staying home, but this was why he had chosen to do so. Even now, locked in this dark little room, he doubts they understand.

The gangster is demanding jewelry now that he’s accepted that none of the Gennas are present tonight; he’s obviously very low-ranking, but no less dangerous, considering his gun. One of the girls makes a soft noise, and Dallon tugs Brendon closer.

“I don’t want you to work here anymore,” he says again, into Brendon’s ear. Jon shushes them before Brendon can respond.

“Cas,” Jon whispers, “There should be a trap door underneath you.” After a moment of fumbling, someone makes a soft noise of affirmation, and a creak follows as the door is opened. “That’s the ceiling to the second floor back entrance. It’s a bit of a drop, but it’s the only safe way out.”

Cassie sits on the edge of the trapdoor, hesitant, and Dallon pushes past Brendon and Ian, joins her. “I’ll go first and help you down, jake?” When she nods, he pushes himself off the ledge. Lands on his feet, then loses his balance when pain sparks in his shins. He hisses softly, rocks on his knees for a moment, but tries to ignore it, stumbles back on his feet, and calls up to Cassie. She drops into his arms, heavy against his chest, and almost makes him fall again. Greta is next, and when he sets her safely on the floor, she actually hugs him, her face wet against his neck.

“Are you all right?” He asks, more flabbergasted than concerned. She only nods, rubs her eyes.

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she says in a low voice, and he can’t help but laugh.

Once Jon, Ian and Brendon have made their way down, managed to stand again after sore ankles and shins, Jon leads the way down the stairs and out the back door, so familiar after that first gunman a month ago. In the cold night air, Jon lets out a string of swear words, kicks the brick building, and Greta lights a cigarette, shares it with Brendon. Ian runs a hand through his curls, asks if everyone is all right.

“My rabbit coat is still upstairs,” Cassie says in a soft voice, “that man might take it...”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Jon says in a rough voice, “ _fuck_!”

And Dallon’s never seen Jon like this; Cassie seems concerned, but Greta looks bored. Brendon is now sharing a second cigarette with Ian.

“Jonny,” Cassie ventures, stepping close to her fiancee, “Jonny, let’s just go home, yeah?”

Greta puts a hand in Ian’s hair. “Home sounds like a good idea. Wanna walk me there, moptop?”

Ian blushes. Brendon grins. But Dallon is unamused, and feels suddenly, inexplicably old. He is older than his friends, by at least four years, and has never been more aware of it than he is right now. There is a man robbing people at gunpoint in the building above them, and Cassie is only concerned for her rabbit coat, while Greta seems suddenly interested in seducing Ian. Jon is the only one who seems to grasp the gravity of the situation, but really, who is Dallon to judge any of them? He still just wants to go home, and never come back to this awful place.

“It’s cold,” he says, tugging his suit coat tighter around his shoulders. “Brendon, let’s go.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. He hardly waits for Brendon to join him before turning to leave the alley.

“Are you all right?” Brendon asks once he catches up; on the street they can’t touch, but Dallon doesn’t even turn to look at him. “I don’t just mean tonight. I mean the books, not going out, and you’re so quiet these days...” He pauses, then suddenly grips Dallon’s shoulder. “Are you still angry? About those things I said on Halloween?”

Partially. Possibly. But Dallon shakes his head, and Brendon sighs.

“Then please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Can’t this wait until we get home?” Dallon asks, turning to face him. “The streetcar’s right there, and I swear I’ll tell you once we’re home.”

Brendon meets his eyes. Nods. Follows him to the streetcar.

Once they’re home, Dallon holds to his promise. He takes Brendon to the office, pulls his mother’s telegram from a desk drawer and hands it over. Brendon takes it carefully, and once it’s read, meets Dallon’s eyes again.

“Isn’t Weston your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what’s wrong?”

Dallon lowers his eyes and shakes his head. “But. But I want to go home. I think it’s time.”

Brendon’s hand slides the telegram back across the desk, with a low, “Oh.”

And Dallon places his hand over Brendon’s before it can be withdrawn. “I want you to come with me. Spencer’s there, right? He can get you a job at his club.”

But Brendon looks unconvinced. “Do you know how much money I make at the Firefly? And Mike was saying he wanted me and Greta to start doing private shows, like their cousin’s wedding-”

“Jiminy Cricket, Brendon!” Dallon snaps, grabbing Brendon’s small shoulders. “After what happened tonight, you still want to involve yourself with those people?! They’re killers! If you became a liability, they’d shoot you where you stand and move on to the next crooner without batting an eye!”

“I can keep a secret! They don’t have to worry about me!”

Dallon is just dumbfounded. “What about North Side then? They attack that wedding and you’re just a casualty? They keep showing up at the Firefly and you’re singing for the Gennas and get shot by association?”

“You worry too much, Dallon,” Brendon says, pulling away. Dallon just stares at him, completely at a loss. After tonight, having to sneak out a secret exit, Brendon doesn’t understand what happened any more than Greta or Cassie. A rabbit coat. Sex. Money. All more important than the fact that they could all have died.

“If money’s what you want, you don’t have to work for it,” Dallon offers desperately. “You could play any dirty blind tiger anywhere, hell, do it for free, and I’d take care of you.”

“Get paid to spend my nights in your bed? Yes, that’s exactly what I want. To go back to that,” Brendon says nastily, his eyes narrow. “I want to take care of myself, Dallon. I know that’s hard to understand when your father pays for everything for you, would probably pay me for you, but it’s all I know.”

“That wouldn’t-... You know I-... _Brendon_!” Dallon puts his hands over his face, tugs on his hair. “You’re being... _impossible_! Listen to me!”

“No, you listen! I don’t want to leave the Firefly, and I sure as hell don’t want to go to New York!” Brendon slams his fist against the desk, and the telegram flutters softly. “I don’t want to start all over in another city and-”

“You don’t want to be with me?” Dallon provides, his voice low and hurt, and Brendon turns his head away. More and more, Dallon has started to become aware of words that are going unspoken between them, amongst the smiles and kisses and bedsheets, things that are there that they don’t mention. He’s still not sure what those words are, what these feelings are, but he tries because he has to: “I won’t go if you don’t come with me.”

And Brendon looks at him, eyes big. “What about your brother?”

Dallon takes a deep breath. Holds it. And Brendon sighs.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean. Don’t act like you care about me-”

“But I do mean it!” Dallon insists. “I just... I wish you’d agree to come.”

“Well, I won’t,” Brendon says stubbornly, and Dallon has to lean against the desk; his chest aches, all the way up to his shoulders, centered in a flare over his heart. “What’s in New York that I can’t get here?”

Dallon stares at him, confused and hurt, and he suddenly feels inexplicably alone; maybe all those feelings he thought were there, were only there for him. He grips the desk, then pushes away from it.

“Fuck you, Brendon,” he says, and Brendon actually gasps to hear that word from Dallon’s mouth, but Dallon just pushes past him, tugging his tie loose as he heads upstairs to bed, closing the door behind him.

  
\------  


Dallon blinks his eyes open a few hours later when the bed dips behind him, and an arm slides around his waist. He shifts onto his back, still half-asleep, and frowns when he sees Brendon.

“What’re you doin’,” he slurs, and Brendon presses his lips to Dallon’s forehead.

“I tried to sleep in the guest room, but it was cold.”

“So light the fire,” Dallon says, closing his eyes again. “Bye.”

Brendon makes an offended noise and nuzzles insistently into Dallon’s neck. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you weren’t there. You keep me warm.”

Dallon still doesn’t open his eyes as he mumbles, “Funny how the one that accused me of treating him like a whore is the one that crawls, uninvited, into my bed.”

Brendon sighs, a puff of warm air against Dallon’s neck. “Fair enough. I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry with me.” Dallon doesn’t answer because he’s right. “I’m being selfish. But I don’t want to leave Chicago. Just when things are starting to pick up for me here?”

“The Firefly isn’t safe,” Dallon says softly, eyes still closed. “You could work at Spencer’s club in New York. It’s the same thing, might have fewer gangsters.”

Brendon sighs against, wraps himself around Dallon. “I was just... hoping to settle down here.”

“W-... you can settle in New York.”

“I don’t know.” Brendon grips Dallon’s waist, and Dallon opens his eyes, rolls over to face Brendon. “But I’ll think about it.”

Dallon blinks slowly, drapes an arm over Brendon to pull him close. “What changed your mind?”

Brendon doesn’t look at him, focuses instead on toying with the buttons on Dallon’s pajama top. He’s quiet for a while, then finally answers, “I thought... you might leave without me after all.”

Dallon frowns again, pulls Brendon flush against him. “Don’t be a bunny,” he chides softly before leaning in for a kiss. And Brendon slides his hand into Dallon’s hair, responding with parted lips, and Dallon’s hand grips Brendon’s shift, that coarse old thing he sleeps in. Dallon can see in his head, has offered to buy, Brendon in red silk pajamas, the newest trend, and Brendon has so far refused, but that image is something Dallon likes, and he tugs the shift up, traces a finger up the back of Brendon’s thigh, and the smaller boy shivers, muscles twitching, and Dallon smiles against his lips.

He kisses down Brendon’s chin to his neck, as his hand curves around Brendon’s generous backside, then down the back of his underwear, palm to skin. He likes it back there, has gotten to know the area pretty well, and Brendon hums in anticipation as Dallon presses a dry fingertip to Brendon’s hole, makes that delicious gasping noise as Dallon pushes the fingertip just inside, not far, but enough to be felt, and Brendon pushes his hips against Dallon’s, grins into his hair.

“You know what I like about you,” Brendon murmurs, and Dallon nips his neck in response, his hands now busy unbuttoning Brendon’s underwear, pushing them down his thighs, and Brendon laughs. “You’re always so eager.”

Dallon moves his head back, watches Brendon’s face as he starts to remove his own pajama pants. “Don’t tell me no one else was excited to have you. I find that... impossible to believe.”

Brendon grins as he kicks his underwear off. “They were excited,” He says, reaching over to give Dallon’s cock a friendly stroke. “But not like you. You...” and he laughs as Dallon cuts him off with a heated kiss, slick fingers pressed against Brendon’s entrance, and he gasps again as two slide inside at once, prompting Dallon to bite down just under Brendon’s chin. Dallon still really enjoys fingering Brendon, the little gasps and sighs Brendon makes, and if he can see the way they disappear inside, he hardly even needs any help from Brendon’s hands to be sent over the edge. He pushes a third finger in, down to the knuckle, then kisses Brendon’s ear.

“Sorry,” Dallon pants, “I got distracted. What were you saying?”

And Brendon laughs again, pushes back against Dallon’s fingers as if seeking more. “This is what I’m talking about,” he says in a breathy voice. “They were excited to satisfy an urge. Their urge. _You_ are eager to please.” He runs a hand down Dallon’s face, neck, chest, his hips still shifting against Dallon’s fingers. “To please _me_.”

Dallon blushes, shrugs awkwardly, withdraws his hand. “I just... I don’t know as much as you, but I still want you to like it...”

“Kitten,” Brendon hums, sits up, pulls his shift over his head, leaving his hair tousled, “you’re the best I’ve ever had.”

And Dallon grins. Crawls between Brendon’s legs. Presses his hand to Brendon’s waist and kisses his stomach, his head light with relief that his efforts aren’t going unnoticed, with desire for the boy spread out beneath him. His slick hand briefly strokes Brendon’s cock, trails over Brendon’s balls, presses two fingers deep into Brendon once more, and Brendon laughs, shifts his hips.

“You like it down there,” Brendon comments, giggling. Dallon hooks his fingers, and Brendon gasps sharply, throws his head back, and sometimes Dallon wonders if it really feels that good. He nips at the muscles on Brendon’s stomach, feels them twitch beneath his lips, and shudders as well.

Brendon laughs again, grips the blanket in his fist. “If you like it so much in there, I could show you something else to do.”

“What,” Dallon breathes, crooks his fingers, and when Brendon reacts, he drags his lips up Brendon’s cock, and Brendon grabs his hair, pulls him up for a kiss.

“I told you not to try that yet,” Brendon murmurs, and Dallon grins.

“I thought you liked that I’m eager,” he teases, curves his fingers again, and Brendon lets out a soft cooing noise, eyes closed. “Now tell me what else I can do.”

“I’ll show you,” Brendon responds, kissing Dallon’s mouth once again. “Next time. Not tonight. But I’ll show you that, and I’ll teach you to suck cock, but God, dammit, Dallon, your _hand_... I just want you to fuck me tonight.”

Now Dallon shivers, stares at Brendon with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Yes.” Brendon blinks, then raises an eyebrow. “That wasn’t your intention?”

“Well... I like this.”

And Brendon laughs. Presses a hand to his eye, tilts his head back and laughs. “Kitten,” he manages after a moment, “you’re so cute, sometimes I can’t stand it.” Dallon blushes, from his throat to his forehead, and Brendon just laughs again, pulls him in for a kiss. “Come on. Next time I’ll get you fixated on something else. Tonight, just get in me.”

They fumble for a moment as Dallon finally pulls off his pajama top, then reaches for the hair oil again, now kept on the bedside table, next to a stack of unread books, and Brendon can’t keep his hands off Dallon’s skin, and when Dallon grips Brendon’s hip, starts to press in, Brendon hooks his ankles behind Dallon’s back, pulls him in by the hair for a wanton kiss. Now that the act isn’t so new anymore, Dallon has started to wonder what Brendon likes so much about being fucked, but that’s one of the questions that he hasn’t worked up the courage to ask yet. Instead, he moves his hips, doesn’t need so much direction anymore to find that spot that makes Brendon writhe, makes him dig his nails into Dallon’s back, makes those wonderful, guttural noises escape his throat.

And Dallon has always liked biting, usually to his partner’s displeasure, but Brendon seems to enjoy being bit, and will wake up in the morning with his neck and shoulders bruised and tender, usually more to Dallon’s embarrassment than anything else. But here, in this moment, stroking Brendon’s prick as he thrusts into that tight, engulfing heat, Dallon gets lost in the soft curve of Brendon’s small shoulders, the way they curve into his neck, and he sinks his teeth into the pale skin until Brendon’s head tilts away, muffles himself with the pillow as he spills over Dallon’s hand. Dallon makes a lewd, excited noise of his own, bites down on the skin under Brendon’s ear, and comes, his hips jerking through it, and Brendon releases a soft breath when Dallon’s weight falls on his chest.

They breathe for a moment, then Dallon pulls out, gently drags dry lips down Brendon’s raw, red neck, almost an apology, though Brendon gives a huffy little laugh and still doesn’t tell Dallon not to bite him anymore.

And Dallon rolls off of Brendon, pulls the sheets up, then pulls Brendon into him, his chest flush against Brendon’s back, his nose in Brendon’s hair. And Brendon turns his head for a brief kiss. Smiles. Rests his hand over Dallon’s.

“The best part about you,” Brendon whispers, “is that you can only get better.”

And Dallon smiles back. He knows, in the back of his head, that Brendon gave no definitive answer on leaving Chicago, or even on leaving the Firefly. But a weight feels lifted from his shoulders, and he gives Brendon a squeeze, buries his face in Brendon’s neck, and falls asleep there, the best sleep he’s had since before Halloween.

  
\------  


Brendon has rehearsal the next morning, so Dallon sleeps in, comes downstairs around noon, still in his dressing gown. He’s sipping coffee in the drawing room, trying to finally finish reading _Babbitt_ , when the butler enters.

“There’s a telegram here, sir, for a Brendon Urie. Is that your friend?”

Dallon sits up, confused. “Yes, that’s him,” he says slowly, reaching for the envelope to confirm that yes, that’s the name in the window. But who would be sending Brendon telegrams at his house? The only person that comes to mind is Spencer, but it’s hard to believe that Spencer would be writing so soon. “Thank you. He’ll be home soon to read it.”

He sets the telegram aside and picks his book up again, though it’s hard for him to concentrate on the words on the page while he’s trying to figure out who knows Brendon is staying here that wouldn’t be able to just stop by to talk to him.

Brendon clatters through the front door a half hour later, immediately turns into the drawing room and throws himself into Dallon’s lap, knocks the book from Dallon’s hands. Dallon grunts, protests, but accepts the kiss hello anyway, before reaching for the telegram and holding it out to Brendon.

“Is it from your mother?” Brendon asks as he takes it.

“I doubt it, since it’s addressed to you.”

Brendon frowns, looks equally confused for a moment, then gasps. “Dallon. What if it’s my family?”

“What? How the devil would your family know you’re here?”

And Brendon blushes, sits back and twirls the envelope in his hands. “Oh. I guess I forgot to tell you. When... when I started coming over here regularly, I wrote home. With this address. I thought... this is a nice place, and I'm making decent money, and I don’t have to be ashamed or afraid of them knowing where I am or what I’m doing. Or, well most of it. I wanted to contact them again.”

Dallon isn’t sure how he feels about this, but dread is in there somewhere, so he bites his lower lip. “Oh. Well. All right. So. Open it.”

Brendon does as he says, opens the yellow paper with a smile that slowly fades before he drops the paper into his lap. Dallon frowns and snatches the sheet without asking.

 

URIES MOVED SIX YEARS AGO STOP DIDNT SAY WHERE STOP GLAD TO FINALLY TELL YOU STOP  
=WILSON FAMILY 

 

“Oh, Brendon,” Dallon sighs, tosses the telegram aside and reaches for him, pulls him into his chest, strokes his hair, pretends he’s not relieved. “Baby, I’m sorry.”

Brendon is silent for a long while, clinging to Dallon’s dressing gown, and just as Dallon starts to wonder if he fell asleep, he says, “I’ll never get to see my family again. I don’t know where they are. It’s so final now. Dallon, what do I do?”

The answer comes without thinking, “Come to New York with me.”

“What?”

“Meet my family. You can...” He almost suggests that Brendon consider the Weekes his family, consider _Dallon_ his family, but he stops himself, embarrassed. “Just... you can start anew. Settle there. Get a job with Spencer. Just... please.”

Brendon sits up, and meets Dallon’s eyes. “You really want me to go?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“And you won’t get bored and kick me out on the streets after a couple months?”

Dallon frowns, offended. “Of course not!”

Brendon tilts his head, almost studying Dallon’s face, and sometimes Dallon wonders why Brendon doesn’t trust him, why he’s always so surprised when Dallon treats him the way Dallon believes a man should treat his lover. It hurts. Not just that Brendon will always second-guess him but also that Brendon has been hurt enough in his own life to always need to second-guess. Dallon puts a hand on Brendon’s face, his thumb rubbing under Brendon’s eye.

“I’m not leaving without you,” says Dallon, his voice soft, “but I want to go home. So please say you’ll come with me.”

Brendon leans into his touch, sighing. “All right,” he says after a moment, “I’ll go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If I don’t know where my family is, if they can’t come see me here, what’s the point in staying.” He pauses, leans forward to press his forehead against Dallon’s. “And what’s the point in making you unhappy.”

Dallon smiles, pulls Brendon in for a kiss. “Thank you,” he mumbles, honestly, and Brendon settles in with his head on Dallon’s chest. There are those words, those feelings, still unspoken, still present; Dallon’s chest feels like it’s buzzing, with Brendon kept so close, and he wraps his arms around the smaller boy, hugs him. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

  
\------  


Later, Dallon is standing in line at the Western Union, a sheet of paper in his hands, and Brendon stands next to him, fascinated by the commotion: people everywhere, writing their messages out at the last minute, and visible behind the counter, the operators sending the messages, all across the country.

"Incredible, the way things work," Brendon keeps saying. "Send a telegram tonight, it's in California and delivered by morning. Amazing."

"We're sending to New York, Brendon," Dallon says absently, and Brendon rolls his eyes.

"I know, I'm just saying. It's still amazing."

Dallon is not as amused, or impressed. He's slightly terrified, would be the better description of his current emotions as he steps forward, and the girl behind the counter smiles and takes his paper. She glances it over, then retypes it, because Dallon's handwriting is awful. Then she hands the typed letter back, saying "Verify, please, sir."

 

COMING HOME FOR THANKSGIVING. BRINGING A FRIEND. LOVE.  
=DALLON 

 

Dallon takes a deep breath, and nods as he hands the paper back to the girl, who now prompts him for his payment. Brendon is smiling slightly.

"Are you going to be all right? Going home?" he asks. Dallon swallows, places his coins on the counter, then turns to Brendon.

"Just don't let me talk myself out of it. Okay?"

Brendon frowns. "All right?"

"Promise. You will force me on that train if you have to."

"Okay. I promise."

And Dallon is going home.


	8. Grand Gestures

“Dallon. Stop panicking.”

“I’m not panicking,” Dallon lies, though his knees are shaking and he didn’t eat yesterday, but still threw up this afternoon before they left for the train station, and he’s looked on the verge of throwing up again since the train lurched away from the platform and started taking them east. Brendon gives him a once-over, then frowns, puts his hand on Dallon’s knee.

“It won’t be that bad.”

But it will. Dallon is convinced. His only solace in this moment is that his father had agreed to let him and Brendon stay in one of the family’s furnished townhouses in the city, instead of at their home in Sands Point. It’s a two hour trip between the two, by subway and streetcar, but it’s for the better. Even with Brendon there, Dallon feels like if he had to stay with his family, he would lose his mind.

Brendon is still watching him. Dallon sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Did you want to go to the dining car?”

“Only if you eat something,” Brendon counters.

“I’m not hungry, but if you’re hungry-”

“You should eat.” Brendon leans over and kisses his temple; in their private compartment, it’s all right. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Brendon is persistent, and manages to get Dallon to take a few bites of a sandwich before they head back to the compartment and have a porter help them set up their tiny, fold out beds. Dallon throws his hands in the air and collapses into an arm chair. “I’ll just sleep here. That thing is too small for me.”

Brendon sighs, and puts a hand on Dallon’s face. “Just promise me you will sleep. At least try. All right, kitten?” Dallon leans into Brendon’s touch. Smiles. Nods. “We’ll be in New York by the time you wake up, but remember we don’t have to see your family until Thanksgiving. So don’t panic. Don’t fret. Just sleep.”

Dallon turns his head to kiss Brendon’s palm. “This is why I wanted you to come.”

Brendon smiles. There’s something palpable in the air between them, but Brendon just leans in to kiss Dallon’s mouth, wish him good night.

Dallon sleeps, but not well. He’s not sure if it’s the train or the chair or his fears that keep jerking him awake through the night, but Brendon appears to be sleeping well.

When Brendon wakes up, he goes to the dining car alone, comes back with an apple for Dallon, but Dallon just turns it over in his hands, piercing the red skin with his thumbnails.

“Did you sleep?” Brendon asks, watching him.

“A little. I tried.”

Brendon sighs. “The porter said we’ll arrive at the station in a half hour.”

“Copacetic.”

“Dallon.” Brendon puts a hand on Dallon’s knee, steadying it. “We have the whole day to ourselves. We don’t have to see your family until tomorrow. Spencer said my audition isn’t until Saturday. Stop. Panicking. We’ll be fine!”

“What if Weston’s sick?”

“I thought you said your mother would have told you by now if he was.”

“But what if he is?”

“Dallon!” Brendon shakes Dallon’s knee and sighs. “Calm down. Just. Forget about your family for one day. Just for today. I’ll let you panic all you want tonight, but for the rest of the day, don’t think about it.”

“We should go to Coney Island.”

“What?”

“We should. It’d be nice. I mean.” Dallon shrugs. “We’d have to spend another hour or so on a train, and it’s cold, but... we just should.”

Brendon watches him for a moment, then sighs once again. He looks utterly at a loss and Dallon feels a little guilty for dragging him through this. “Okay, kitten. If you say so.”

  
\------  


It works, for the most part. There’s a man waiting for Dallon outside Penn Station, with a car, and Dallon instructs him to take them to the Sea Beach station on 52nd, and drop their bags off at home, then pick them up at seven tonight. Brendon has never been to New York, and keeps commenting on how similar it is to Chicago, and how different at the same time. Dallon just tries to ignore how his heart is pounding, how he can’t seem to catch his breath.

The weather is cold and sharp, but Brendon likes the beach, keeps his jacket tight around his shoulders as he dances away from the waves. They’re part of a sparse crowd, and while Brendon seems to like looking at the rides, he’s not interested in riding them, and keeps asking about when Dallon used to come here as a boy, before the war.

“I can’t picture you as a boy,” Brendon comments while they sit at the counter at Nathan’s, hunched over against the chill. “Maybe because you’re so tall.”

“Or so old,” Dallon laughs, but Brendon smiles.

“You’re only five years older than me. But you’re about seven inches taller, so it’s hard for me to see you any smaller than that. Smaller than me.”

“Mama has pictures,” Dallon says. “If they haven’t moved it, there’s a painting of the whole family that was done when I was three, hanging over the fireplace in the drawing room. So I’m sure you’ll see. And you’ll laugh.”

It starts to rain around three, and the rain quickly turns to sleet, so they run to catch the next train back to the city, but they arrive too early for the car. Sitting in the train station, Brendon goes to ask for a tourist's pamphlet, and again, starts to ask Dallon about his childhood, growing up in New York.

"They opened the Woolworth building just before I turned sixteen. Tallest building in the world. Papa took me to see it for my birthday that year."

"When was that?"

"May, 1913. It was pretty nifty."

"What about Broadway? Have you ever seen a show?"

"Mama took a liking to musicals when I was around ten. She must have taken us to see _Naughty Marietta_ at least five times. Even Jordan was sick of it by then, and he was always trying to gain our parents’ favor.”

Brendon raises his eyebrows. “Why? Did they treat him bad?”

“God, no. Jordan just thought, you know, Weston was the oldest so he got all Papa’s attention because he was going to take over, and I was the youngest so I got all Mama’s attention ‘cause I was the baby. He was a moron, it wasn’t like that.”

“What does Jordan do?”

“He’s a pastor now, out west. Colorado, I think. Engaged.” Dallon stops. Frowns. Turns to Brendon. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” Brendon tries and fails to look innocent.

“Asking... these questions.”

“I’m just curious about what it was like for you, growing up.”

But Dallon’s not stupid. He can see it now, that Brendon is trying to make him more comfortable; talking about his family in the hopes that it will be easier to see them tomorrow. And, to Dallon’s surprise, it’s worked, at least for now. He doesn’t feel sick anymore, and really just wants to crawl into bed and sleep for hours. So he grins at Brendon, nudges him with his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says, “for coming with me.”

“Don’t mention it,” Brendon smiles.

  
\------  


The telephone in the kitchen rings at almost eleven the next morning, and in this townhouse, much smaller than his Chicago home (though no less impressive), Dallon can hear it, can hear the butler answer it, passing a message to Brendon, who appears in Dallon’s doorway, then falls into bed next to him. Or, mostly on him.

“Why do you like jumping on me so much,” Dallon asks, muffled by the bed sheets.

“Because you smell good.” And Dallon’s not sure if he’s teasing or not, but Brendon continues before he can ask, “Your mother wants us at the house by noon.”

And that makes Dallon sit up straight, practically throwing Brendon off him and onto the floor. “Is she off her nuts?! The drive is over an hour, and she’s just calling to tell us this now?!” This is actually just like his mother, and he’s surprised and disappointed in himself for not foreseeing it. Brendon, looking affronted, sits up from the floor and rests his chin on the bed as Dallon scrambles out of the sheets and heads for his closet. She’ll kill him if he’s not clean, not well-dressed, but she’ll kill him if he’s late too, and, “Brendon, did you bathe last night?” Because she’ll pick him apart too, and as much as Dallon hates when his mother picks him apart, he feels like he won’t be able to stand by and watch her pick on Brendon. But Brendon frowns hard, moves to sit on the bed.

“I’m not going to meet your parents smelling like a twenty-hour train ride, of course I bathed! Calm down!”

But it’s far too late to calm down now, and Dallon rushes to the washroom to quickly scrub himself clean.

By the time Brendon finally pulls Dallon away from the downstairs mirror, forces him to put his hat on and leave it on, and drags him outside, it’s eleven-thirty. The driver is waiting for them, patiently, and as they slide into the back seat, Brendon reminds Dallon, once again, not to panic.

Unfortunately, Dallon’s anxiety appears to be contagious. By the time they arrive in Sands Point, Brendon’s knee is jumping up an down, and he stares out the window, open-mouthed, at the homes of Dallon’s neighbors. When they finally pull up to Dallon’s home, and the driver goes to open the door for them, neither moves. Brendon turns to Dallon with wide eyes, and Dallon tries to breathe through gritted teeth.

“Dallon,” Brendon hisses. And Dallon moves.

He hasn’t been home since 1918. Six years in Chicago, meeting people, smoking mesca, drinking illegal hooch, dancing at illegal clubs, kissing boys, petting girls, attempting to court Brendon, turning Lucy away and hiding from gun-wielding mobsters, and Dallon has never been as scared as he is right now, standing on this step and waiting for someone to open the door at the house he grew up in.

He’s surprised enough to shout when his mother appears on the other side of the door, pulls him in for a tight hug. He hugs her back, but isn’t sure what to say when she pulls away with tears in her eyes, kisses his face, hugs him again. Ellen Weekes looks the same, mostly. A little older, a little blonder, but it’s just like her to keep up with trends like hair coloring. Her eyes are still blue, the same shade as his own, and she’s saying something about how tall and handsome he is, just like his father, but he’s a little too stunned to pay attention.

Dallon is home. The walls of the foyer are still green, and that painting of Grandfather is still on the wall to greet him. It’s like he never left.

“Oh!” He says, pulling away from his mother and reaching for Brendon, still standing patiently behind him. “Mama, this is Brendon. My friend. From Chicago.”

And Brendon is polite, kissing her hand and smiling, and she smiles back, greets him pleasantly, before turning to Dallon with a small frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“We just...” She sighs heavily. “We were expecting a young lady. I was hoping you were finally ready to marry.”

Brendon laughs. Dallon glares at him, turns back to his mother. “Mama, let’s not start our visit this way.”

Ellen stands back to let them enter the foyer, still pouting, though when Brendon passes her, starts to study Grandfather’s portrait, she suddenly starts beaming.

“I suppose it’s all right, for now, I’ve got too many weddings to plan as it is.”

Dallon raises an eyebrow. “I thought Jordan’s fiance’s parents were planning his wedding.”

“Oh, they are, dear. I meant Weston’s.”

What. “ _What?_ ” Dallon snaps. Even Brendon turns around, eyes big and ears perked. “What the _hell_ do you mean, Weston’s? Weston’s _wedding_?”

“Yes!” She looks utterly pleased with herself, and Dallon seriously considers, for several moments, grabbing Brendon and jumping on the next train to Chicago, never looking back. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Why couldn’t you have told me this _before_ I traveled all the way from Chicago?!” And Dallon must sound as upset as he feels, because Brendon takes the risk and grabs his hand, squeezes gently. “Mama, I was worried sick! I thought he was _dying_!”

“Don’t be silly, dear, if that were the case I would have told you outright.” He knew it. “I just thought it would be a nice surprise!” Her eyes dart to Brendon’s hand entwined with Dallon’s, and when Brendon starts to pull away, Dallon holds on out of sheer spite. A nice surprise? She knew exactly what she was doing, manipulated Dallon into coming back here, and if she wants to play games, Dallon has a pretty good one up his sleeve as well.

Dallon clings to Brendon’s hand, lets his mother watch as he takes a few deep breaths, tries to calm down enough to ask, “Weston’s doing better, then?”

She glances back up at his face, though her expression is more hesitant now. “Oh yes, dear. Come, everyone’s in the drawing room, I’m sure Weston would love to tell you all about it.”

Ellen leads the way down the hall, and Dallon continues to hold Brendon’s hand, though the smaller boy keeps glancing at him like he’s not sure what’s happening. Dallon just clears his throat, doesn’t look back.

“Look who’s here!” Ellen announces as she throws the drawing room doors open, then stands aside for Dallon and Brendon to enter. There’s Henry, Dallon’s father, sitting by the window and talking to a young woman with dark red hair, and Weston nearby, perched in his wooden wheelchair. Both men resemble Dallon almost perfectly, save for the age differences, and Brendon notices too, glancing at Dallon again as if sizing him up.

Weston has never smiled so wide as he wheels himself over, and Brendon tries not to stare at the missing leg as Dallon smiles back, shakes his brother’s hand.

“I hear you’re getting married,” Dallon says.

“Yes,” Weston says, “to Rose.” He glances back over his shoulder at the young woman, who is helping Henry to stand. “She was hired as a nurse for me, then for Papa when his back got bad. But she served in the war too, and... and it was good to have someone to talk to about it. Someone who understood.”

And Rose is lovely, with her dark brown eyes and a splash of freckles across her nose. She’s dressed much more conservatively than Dallon is used to anymore, after his flapper dames in Chicago, but it suits her, and he kisses her hand before reaching to hug her, calls her his sister.

But it’s Henry who asks, “Who’s this?” and gestures to Brendon, who blushes and looks awkward, like he wishes he hadn’t intruded.

“I’m Brendon Urie. Sir,” he says, extending his hand. “One of Dallon’s friends, from Chicago.”

And Ellen proves she hasn’t changed at all when she interjects, “Dallon’s _special_ friend.”

“ _Mama_!” Dallon gasps, scandalized. It’s not that she’s wrong, it’s that she didn’t ask first to make sure. Weston raises both eyebrows, and Rose hides a smile behind her hand. Henry chuckles softly.

“Ellen, what makes you think that?”

“They were holding hands in the foyer! And really, I was thinking, we were expecting a young woman and he shows up on our doorstep with a young man instead? And doesn’t want to talk about marriage?”

“Mama, I never want to talk about marriage,” Dallon says quietly.

“Maybe this is why! You’re frolicking with boys instead of exposing yourself to young women. Not that we’re not happy to meet you, Brendon,” she coos, reaching to touch Brendon’s face; his eyes are wide and he seems tense, poised to run should the need arise. “You’re so handsome, and I’m sure you’re wonderful company.”

“Jiminy Cricket,” Dallon runs his hands over his face, and now Weston is laughing. “Mama, can we at least take our coats off before you start saying ridiculous things?”

Ellen throws her hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine! Give me your coats, I gave the maid the day off for the holiday.” They do as they’re told, then move to sit by the window, Brendon and Dallon together on the sofa with Henry in his chair, Rose perched on the arm. She fidgets slightly, then leans towards Brendon.

“Are you really inverts?” She murmurs, and Henry and Weston laugh again. “No, I mean it! I’ve heard they have clubs in the city and parties with sissies that dress up like girls... I’ve just never met one before!”

Brendon glances at Dallon, as if unsure what to say, but Dallon shrugs. “Trying things is trendy.”

“It’s not ‘trying’ if you dragged him all the way from Chicago,” Weston comments. “Dallon, you don’t have to hide it. Remember when we were kids and that ‘confirmed bachelor’ lived across the street, had a new male roommate every few months? Or Uncle David, when he brought his friend over for Christmas?”

“I was three the last time we saw Uncle David!” Dallon protests.

“And David is a sissy,” Henry adds. “That’s different."

"Either way, I'm saying that it doesn't matter if you're fond of Brendon."

"Agreed!" Rose says. Henry nods, and for some reason, Dallon feels relieved. He reaches for Brendon's hand again, smiles at him, but Brendon doesn't smile back.

When Ellen returns, she ushers everyone to the dining room for dinner. The spread is ridiculous, far too much food for six people, but Ellen is kind enough to let the cook join them, since he wasn't able to get the day off. Henry makes a lovely little speech about how grateful the family is to have Weston feeling so much better, to have Dallon home at last, and Rose applauds at the end, and Dallon thinks he likes her; she comes across as much more genuine, much more grounded, much happier than any other girl he’s known. And with the stress of worrying over Weston’s health off his shoulders, Dallon finds he’s pleased to be here. Everything is so homey and familiar; even the cook is the same man that used to sneak brandy snaps into Dallon’s hands and coat pockets every night, before he went home.

For a while, Brendon sits and doesn’t speak, until Ellen engages him in a conversation while Dallon is distracted by Weston, telling the story of how he proposed to Rose on the boardwalk at Coney Island. He can overhear snippets of Brendon and Ellen, discussing music and where Brendon plans on working in the city, and then Ellen asks if Brendon ever plans to marry, and Dallon turns abruptly, slams his napkin on the table.

“Mama, really,” he pleads, and Brendon glances at him before turning back to Ellen.

“No. It’s not really in the cards for me."

Ellen narrows her eyes, raises them to meet Dallon’s. “I just mean, dear, that a little tryst every now and then doesn’t hurt anyone, but a man should start looking to marry at some point, and start a family.”

“Some men should. I’m not one of them," Brendon says calmly.

“Ellen, love,” Henry interrupts, “you already have two sons getting married within the next six months, is it really necessary to hassle Brendon and Dallon as well?”

“I just think that, at Dallon’s age, he should be interested in something besides entertaining some... _intrigue_ with a jazz crooner.”

Brendon looks offended, and Dallon sighs. “Mama, that’s enough.”

“Frankly, Ellen,” Henry says, leaning back in his chair with a smile, “if Dallon decides he wants to be a bachelor his whole life, and live in the city with Brendon, it wouldn’t bother me. It’s not unheard of.”

“It’s the berries right now,” Rose adds, with a smile that wrinkles her nose.

And Weston chimes in, “Remember Uncle David.”

Ellen looks trapped and upset, but, to Dallon’s surprise, it’s Brendon that reaches for her arm.

“Would you like to hear me play?” He suggests. “I saw you had a piano in the drawing room... it’d be a nice way to relax before dessert.”

Ellen blinks at him, then smiles.

  
\------  


It’s late when Brendon and Dallon finally arrive at their city townhouse, parking the car out front. Brendon has been quiet the whole drive, is quiet as they enter the house, and Dallon worries his lower lip.

“I’m sorry,” he says, as Brendon hangs up his coat. “My family can be... kind of overbearing, I suppose. Especially my mother. I’m sorry if she offended you.”

Brendon turns slowly and gives Dallon a wan smile. “She didn’t offend me. She was actually pretty correct about the whole... tryst thing, so-”

“Stop. Stop right there. I’ve told you.... fifteen dozen times, you’re wrong. You’re wrong, and she’s wrong, and I’m not going anywhere, because...” and Dallon stops himself, because he almost said those words he’s been thinking about, in the very deepest reaches of his brain. “B-because I want to be with you.”

“Isn’t this just an experimentation? A way to pass the time until you meet a girl you can marry?”

“Jiminy _Cricket_ , Brendon! I could’ve married Lucy, couldn’t I? Dragged her all the way out here, never saw you again, hell, I might have even come around to loving her at some point, but I picked you.”

Brendon stares at him, in a way that makes Dallon feel exposed, and he takes a small step away from that astute gaze.

“Why?” Brendon says after a moment.

“What?”

“Why did you choose me?” And Brendon runs his hands through his hair, laughs slightly, shakes his head. “That’s what I’ve been trying to puzzle out all month. Why the hell would you choose me. You could have had both. I... I won’t say I wouldn’t have minded, but I know how things are. You didn’t have to turn her away, you didn’t have to let me stay in your home, you didn’t have to invite me here or fuck, you didn’t even have to seek me out, back in September, at the book store, and you didn’t have to kiss me or fuck me or any of that, and I don’t understand. I don’t understand you at _all_ , Dallon.”

And Dallon’s not really sure he understands any of what’s happened in the past few months either. All he knows is that he was content with the tiny little world he lived in until he met Brendon, who allowed him to feel something more than contentment, or entertainment, or boredom. And that feeling, still unspoken, has continued to grow, with every kiss and every fight, it grows.

“I’m not the type of man who could have an affair,” Dallon says, his voice soft but strong. Steady. Because it’s the truth.

“Then why me?” Brendon almost pleads. “Why pick someone your family won’t be happy with-”

“Horsefeathers! My mother was the only one who seemed to mind, and she’ll get used to it once Weston or Jordan gives her grandbabies to focus on.”

“Dallon.” Brendon rubs his face. “That’s beside the point. Why would you choose me?”

“Because I want to be with you. Haven’t I made that clear?”

But apparently that’s not the answer Brendon is looking for, because he sighs and leans against the wall, doesn’t look at Dallon. “You want things you can’t have,” he says softly, and Dallon frowns.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that... that you and your parents, you talk about forever. Like you think that this will last forever. It doesn’t work that way.”

“It has so far! Criminy, Brendon!” Dallon reaches for Brendon’s face, the moon casting shadows through the window, making brown eyes glow. “Don’t tell me that you don’t think we have something here, because I don’t want to hear it. Because it’s not true.”

Brendon’s hands slide around Dallon’s waist, pulls him closer, until their stomachs touch. “Somethings like this don’t last, kitten,” he whispers, and Dallon shakes his head.

“You’ve never seen a pair of men decide to be together longer than a few months?”

Brendon chews on his lower lip, exhales slowly. “Well... the owners of the Tap. Met at university in 1899. Declared themselves happy bachelors-”

“So why are you fighting me? It can happen if we want it to.”

“I think you want too much, Dallon.”

And Dallon pulls away from Brendon’s grasp, viciously, stumbles out of the foyer. “Dammit, Brendon!” he snaps. “You should have told me that before we left Chicago!” Brendon stands there, moonlit and beautiful, something in his eyes that reminds Dallon of wood floors and an iron stove in a bad part of town. “If you don’t want this, you should have said so!”

“Dallon, that’s not what I meant!” Brendon puts his hands over his face, tries to take a deep breath. “Christ, this is what I was afraid of, coming here.”

“What?” Dallon almost spits, somewhere between anger and pain.

“That you’d change your mind. Decide you don’t want me.”

“I’m not the one who said anything about not wanting.” But Dallon sighs. Runs his hands through his hair. Laughs. “I’m not going to send you packing. Because I do want you. I want you to stay, and I want us to try and settle here, and see what happens.” And Dallon moves past Brendon to the coat rack, reaches into the inner pocket of his raccoon coat and pulls out a silver key. “But if you ever decide that I’m not what you want, or that I want too much, then I want you to have this.”

Brendon takes the key, cautiously, holds it up between two fingers. “What is it?”

“It’s the key to my home in Chicago. If you decide to go back, I don’t want you on the streets or in some shitty apartment on the wrong side of town. It’s yours if you want it.”

There’s no hiding it now, no pretending it’s just moonlight when Brendon blinks and a tear slides down his cheek. “Jesus, Dallon,” he murmurs.

“It’s up to you,” Dallon says, can feel the tremor in his own voice. “Because I want what you want.” He lifts his hand to Brendon’s face, gently strokes a thumb under his eye, pretends he doesn’t notice dampness on his skin. “Because I care about you.”

“ _Jesus_ , Dallon,” Brendon says again, more broken, almost pleading.

“I’m going to bed.” And Dallon leans in for a gentle kiss, doesn’t open his eyes until he’s turned away from Brendon’s face, headed towards the stairs. “Good night.”

  
\------  


Dallon doesn’t sleep that night. He doesn’t even read. He lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. At some point he hears Brendon climbing the creaky stairs, then a long pause before the door across the hall swings shut. And that’s all.

Turning onto his side, Dallon pulls his pillow in tight, closes his eyes.

At least Brendon’s not leaving tonight.


	9. Your Chicago Experience

Dallon wakes up when the front door slams shut. He curses this tiny house, where he can hear every little thing, then stretches and puts on his dressing gown to go downstairs.

“Where’s Brendon?” he asks as he steps into the kitchen, where the cook is fussing over some kind of stew while the butler writes out the afternoon’s to-do list.

“He said to remind you that his audition is today,” the butler says, almost distracted. “He won’t be home until late.”

“Oh,” Dallon says softly. They hardly spoke at all yesterday, after their fight, but it wasn’t an angry silence. No, it felt mostly weighed down with a heavy sadness, the air filled with all the words they were too afraid to say, until Dallon had enough and left for a walk in Central Park. He had ended up sitting alone in the grass, watching sheep graze, but at least there he could breathe.

“But your mother called,” the butler mentions, almost as an afterthought, and Dallon sighs, rolls his eyes. “She said that Jordan has arrived, and you should go see him.”

Dallon glances out the kitchen window, watches the busy street. The whole family is together now, in their hometown, just for Weston’s wedding. Granted, Ellen had planned it perfectly, so that even if Jordan wasn’t going to quite make it in time for Thanksgiving, everyone would be staying for Christmas and New Year’s as well, while they waited for the wedding date to arrive. Dallon smiles to himself; he can just see the joy on her face when she sees all three of her boys, back together at last.

"Can you get someone to draw me a bath?" Dallon asks as the butler brings him a cup of coffee. "I'm going to visit my mother."

  
\------

 

Dallon shows up on his mother's doorstep in his raccoon coat, sporting a plum-colored pin-striped three-piece underneath; Weston has his injury and Jordan has his arrogant faith. Without Brendon, the only things Dallon has to draw attention to himself are his trends and fashions, and the young maid who answers the door looks rightly impressed, especially with his coat.

He hears his name called and glances up to see Jordan, in a white silk dressing gown, approaching him in the foyer, yellow hair tousled as he pulls Dallon into a hug.

"You're so tall!" Jordan exclaims, and Dallon rolls his eyes; Jordan wasn't able to be there when Weston first came home, didn't come until weeks after Dallon decided to run and not come back. So Dallon hasn't seen this brother since before the war started, since before he reached his full height. "God, look at you! You and Weston could pass for twins, if you didn't have both your legs!"

Dallon doesn't think the joke is funny, but smiles anyway. "Are you staying here?" he asks, gesturing at the dressing gown.

"Yes, Mother gave us the big room upstairs. Oh!" he gasps when Dallon looks confused. "You haven't met Ruth. Come on, everyone's in the dining room."

And Ellen practically screams with joy when Jordan ushers Dallon into the dining room. Henry looks disapproving, but stays back, allows her to maneuver the boys together, standing them in order of age, then in order of height (which Weston, seated in his wooden wheelchair, doesn’t appreciate at all), then attempting to hug all three of them at once before gesturing the girls over. Rose greets Dallon with a big smile, kisses his cheek, but the other girl, smaller and more traditionally dressed, in a long cotton dress that looks homemade, looks nervous, brushing stray strands of blonde hair from her face.

“You must be Ruth,” Dallon says, and waits for her to offer her hand. When she only nods, keeps her arms at her sides, he frowns. “Are you all right?”

“You’re the youngest, right? Jordan’s told me about you.”

Dallon laughs as Jordan comes to stand with them. “What has he told you?”

“That you live in the city. Dance in the jazz clubs. That’s the devil’s music.”

Dallon turns to Jordan with a disbelieving smirk. “Why would you tell her that?”

“I didn’t tell her it was the devil’s music. That’s not how I lead my congregation. She came to it on her own.”

“Well God bless,” Dallon says wryly. “So you’re not going to kiss me? The only devil I ever saw in a club was Mike Genna, but I swear, I mostly stopped going to that place afterwards.”

She looks confused, and it occurs to Dallon that the farther reaches of the country, where Jordan lives, probably don’t keep up with the Chicago underground. But she does finally extend her hand, and Dallon kisses it. For a moment, he feels that strange sense of pride he used to get whenever he charmed a girl into a kiss, and he realizes how long it’s been since he’s played that game just to get that feeling. With Brendon, kisses come naturally. Briefly, his heart expands and he can’t help but smile to think that kissing Brendon feels so much better than that phony arrogance, but then he remembers their fight, Brendon not wanting him but not leaving either, and that ache in his chest returns.

Ellen decides she wants a photograph, sends a boy to fetch her Brownie camera. She arranges Jordan and Dallon standing in the back, Weston in front of them, then Ruth and Rose seated on either side of Weston’s chair. She stands back and sighs softly, almost wistfully, and Jordan laughs.

“Happy, Mother?”

“Very much so. There’s really only one thing missing from this image,” and she looks pointedly at Dallon, who frowns. Jordan chuckles again.

“Too bad Dallon doesn’t have a girl, then.”

Weston and Rose both turn to look at Dallon, who blushes. Henry coughs. Ellen clears her throat.

“Someday,” she says.

Once the photo is taken, Jordan suggests they head to the drawing room for a few card games, but Henry grabs Dallon’s arm, asks for help standing. Rose looks confused, since assisting Henry is normally her job, but Henry waves her on. “You’re not a paid servant anymore, you’re joining our family. Let Dallon do it.”

Dallon smiles at her and nods, and she smiles shyly back before turning and bustling out of the dining room. Dallon lends his father a shoulder, helps to support his weight, then hands Henry his cane.

“Mama should have told me your back was this bad,” Dallon mutters. Henry smiles and shakes his head.

“Your mother has only the best intentions. Don’t resent her for not telling you things that wouldn’t have brought you home anyway.” Dallon feels heat rise in his cheeks, ashamed, because he probably wouldn’t have come home even if he had known. “But I wanted to ask you: where’s Brendon?”

Dallon frowns. "He's at his audition for Club Fronton. Said he wouldn't be back until late, so he's probably planning to get dinner with Spencer."

"Who's Spencer?"

"A friend from Chicago. Just a friend," he insists when Henry's brow raises. "Really. He's a drummer, recommended Brendon for the job." When Dallon starts to to lead Henry towards the dining room, Henry stops him.

"You should invite Brendon to dinner soon. Any night. If you're actually thinking you won't marry, if you want Brendon to be your companion, you need to let Jordan and Ruth get used to the idea. Especially if he's coming to the wedding."

Dallon doesn't say that he's not even sure if Brendon will still be in New York come tomorrow morning. "All right. I'll ask him."

\------

Dallon is awoken by Brendon, once again, jumping on him. Brendon laughs, pulls the book off Dallon's face and drops it on the floor, then doesn't move so Dallon can't sit up. The light outside the front window is a dim violet, so he must have fallen asleep while reading _Of Human Bondage_ , after he came home. He glances at Brendon, who is cuddling into his chest, and briefly wonders when they made up, when they started talking again. "What are you doing?"

"I got the job," Brendon hums, sitting up with a smile. "I am Club Fronton's main pianist. They won't let me sing yet. Something about their canary's father being a big shot, I dunno. Maybe someday. But at least I get to play. At least one of us is employed," he teases, leaning in for a kiss. But Dallon turns his head away at the last minute, and Brendon sits up, looks hurt. "What's the matter?"

"Look, I'm happy for you, but you can't just... Barge in here and pretend everything's all right!"

Brendon sits up and pouts. “That’s what we did last time we fought, isn’t it? We get angry, then we fuck, then everything’s better. And lucky you,” he says over a feral grin, “after that audition, I feel like teaching you how to enjoy having my cock in your mouth.”

Dallon turns away from this kiss as well, pushes Brendon off him so he can sit up. He feels almost sick at the thought of sleeping with him right now. “Do you really feel better after... after sex?” They’re alone in the house, and he still whispers the last two words, embarrassed, and Brendon’s lips twitch in a brief smile. “Because I don’t. Or, well, I do, but... I don’t know. You apologized last time.”

“Then I’m sorry, kitten.” Brendon puts his hand on Dallon’s face, draws it down his shoulder and chest. “I’m sorry if I scared you, or-”

“No, stop!” Dallon grabs Brendon’s hand just as it reaches his belt. “Stop it. I’m tired of this, Brendon. I’m tired of not knowing if you’ll still be here in the morning. I’m tired of feeling like you only hang around because of the sex.”

“That’s not true!” Brendon insists, before glancing down at his hand and pulling it back, looking ashamed. “I swear it’s not true. I was excited, and Spencer shared some of his tea sticks before dinner, and I thought a little nookie would be the perfect way to cap off the day.”

“Then why are you still here?” Dallon asks softly, staring at his lap. “You have a house there, and I know you have enough money for the train ticket. So why stay?”

“Because I want to be here,” Brendon answers, putting his hand on Dallon’s knee. “I want to be here with you.”

“That’s not what you said the other night.”

“No, you misunderstood what I said!” Brendon insists, frowning. “I said you wanted too much. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want you. It means that you may not be able to get what you want this time.”

“And why can’t I?”

“Because you don’t have any idea what you’re doing!” Brendon snaps, though he doesn’t sound angry. “You’re acting like you want us to grow old together, but you’re not even queer! Are you?”

And Dallon’s never thought about it. He’s attracted to girls, has found boys pretty, thinks Brendon’s incredibly handsome, but while his feelings for Brendon are strong, he wasn’t lying when he said he might have been able to love Lucy, had they married. He looks at Brendon, sees those full lips pull into a tight line.

“That’s what I thought,” Brendon mutters. “You’ll get married, settle down with some girl, and I’ll just be your Chicago Experience. That’s why I said you want too much.” He pauses. Swallows. Laughs sadly. “And you know what’s awful? I want too much too. I’m just not enough of a sap to think I can get it.”

Dallon stares at him. Reaches for him. But Brendon pulls away, stands without looking back, murmurs something about going to bed. And Dallon watches him climb the stairs, watches him enter the bedroom across from Dallon’s and shut the door.

“Damn,” Dallon whispers to himself, “you are such a fool.”

\------

They sleep in different bedrooms for a few nights, and between Dallon’s trips to Sands Point and Brendon’s rehearsals and working nights, they hardly see one another. Henry keeps asking where Brendon is, and Rose is kind enough to ask if everything is all right between them. Dallon tells her to worry about her wedding instead, and she laughs and wrinkles her freckled nose.

The following Friday, Dallon decides not to visit his family, and spends most of the day in his room, reading _Ethan Frome_. But he finishes the book just after dinner, and is left feeling restless. He misses Brendon, and has yet to visit the new club. A little jazz might do him some good, and it would be nice to go somewhere that isn’t Sands Point for once. So he dresses up in his white tie and black tails, slicks his hair down, pulls on his raccoon coat and heads out the door.

Brendon had left a membership card on the dining room table after his first night at work, and when Dallon walks up, he passes it to the man behind the iron gate, who gives Dallon a once-over, then unlocks the gate and swings it open. The building has at least three stories, and when Dallon enters, he asks the girl at coat check where the bar is. She blinks at him, hangs his coat up, gives him a tag.

“Which bar, sir?”

Dallon raises an eyebrow, wonders if she’s concerned about a raid. “Which floor do I need to go to?”

“Which bar are you interested in, sir?”

And Dallon realizes the entire building is a speakeasy. He whistles slowly, impressed, and drums his fingers on the counter.

“Where does the band play? The dance floor?”

“Downstairs in the basement, sir, but it’s almost time for dinner, so-”

But he leaves before she can finish her sentence, heading down the stairs, and it appears the entire basement, at least as large as the floors above, is dedicated to dancing. There’s a large bar just to his left as he enters the room, with the bartender dressed as least as well as the clientele, apparently the cream of the New York City crop. The room is well lit, the walls lined with white curtains, eliciting the illusion of covered windows, and drawing the eye towards the raised stage and it’s red curtain backdrop. All of the musicians are wearing red jackets, and the singer is wearing a flashy red dress, a red feather in her blonde hair. She wears too much kohl, and doesn’t have Greta’s range, but her voice is sultry and low, which appears to work for the crowd. Dallon just sighs, and heads to the bar, orders a gin and soda. The drink comes in a glass, rather than a teacup, and solidifies Dallon’s opinion that this speakeasy is not your average speakeasy; even the Firefly, with the celebrities and politicians they catered to, used teacups.

The band is tighter as well, more intuitive; when Brendon plays a lick in a solo, the trumpeteer that follows him plays a similar lick, which the ukulele player puts his own twist on, and when the vocalist comes back in, she adjusts her melody to match. Dallon has never seen a band play quite this well, and a sense of pride rises in his chest, that Brendon is playing in a group of this caliber.

The band wraps up their piece with a flourish, and the singer announces that it’s dinner time. Dallon assumes that the upper floors must be dining rooms, but doesn’t concern himself over it because the band is staying down here; a few of the brass musicians jump off the stage and start to pull some of the smaller tables that line the walls towards the center of the room, and the bartender ducks through a small door behind the bar, that presumably leads towards the kitchen.

“Hey!” Someone yells, and Dallon turns. “Clear out! Clientele eats upstairs!”

“No, wait!” and that’s Spencer’s voice, so Dallon smiles, steps closer to the center of the room. “That’s Dallon, he’s jake, Dallon!” And Spencer, still tall and blue-eyed and bearded, strides toward him, gives him a bright smile, collects him in a hug. “It’s so good to see you! I was wondering when you’d show up!”

“Had nothing else to do tonight,” Dallon laughs, clapping Spencer on the shoulder. “Great to see you, what’s new?”

And Spencer’s grin turns a little sly as he nudges Dallon, lifts his left hand to show off a gold ring. “Haley sent for me,” he says in a low voice, “that’s why I left. We eloped. Live in an apartment nearby. Her family still doesn’t know.”

Dallon grins and hugs Spencer again. “I’m glad things worked out for you,” he says honestly, though he can’t help thinking about Brendon, who seems to have disappeared. Spencer notices his wandering gaze and shakes his head.

“Don’t worry. Brendon usually helps collect the food. He’ll be back in a bit. Come sit with us! You don’t have to eat,” he adds when Dallon starts to protest. “Just sit down, have a smoke, and stay a while. Hell, Alex will fix you a drink and you can go out on a roof, it’ll be on me.”

“Alex?”

“The bartender,” Spencer explains, pulling out a chair that Dallon hesitantly takes; he feels out of place in this sea of red, musicians glancing at him as if he doesn’t belong. “He’s with Brendon right now.”

“Just the two of them bring out enough food for all of you?”

Spencer laughs and shakes his head. “Gabe and Ryan usually go too.”

Something goes off in Dallon’s brain, something about how Brendon and the same group of men tend to disappear together to fetch dinner, and he starts to ask Spencer about these names, but is interrupted by a voice echoing off the walls: “Who’s hungry?”

As the musicians cheer, Dallon turns back to the doorway. A tall man with an engaging smile is leading the way with a large plate of food in front of him, then the long-haired bartender just behind, a plate balanced on each shoulder. Lagging slightly is Brendon, smiling cheerfully, like he doesn’t have to go to bed alone, at a lanky man with curls that frame his ears.

Dallon scowls and turns to Spencer, whose eyes immediately dart to the table.

“Who is that,” Dallon says, voice sharp but low enough to hear Brendon’s laugh as the lanky man speaks. Spencer scratches the back of his neck.

“Just some musician, I mean, he’s nobody.”

Dallon slams his palm on the table, earns a few glances in their direction, and Spencer finally looks at him. “Who. Is. He.”

Spencer sighs. “His name is Ryan. He’s the ukulele player.”

“Is he close to Brendon?”

“Are you jealous? Because really, Dallon, this kind of thing is how everyone at the Firefly knew-”

“Goddammit, Spencer,” Dallon hisses, and Spencer’s eyes widen to hear Dallon curse. “Does Brendon not talk about me?”

And Spencer looks uncomfortable. “What’s he going to talk about?”

“Even to you? You know. Does he talk to you?”

“Well... he changes the subject whenever I’d ask if you were going to visit soon.”

Dallon nods, lips tight, then makes a frustrated noise. “Perfect. Copacetic.” He glances down the table over Spencer’s shoulder; at the opposite end, Brendon and Ryan are setting out their plates, talking and laughing, and Ryan bumps against Brendon’s shoulder, gives him a smile that is anything but innocent, and Dallon can’t take this anymore. “ _Brendon_!” He yells, and Spencer ducks his head as Brendon glances up, jaw dropping when Dallon raises his arm.

“Dallon!” Brendon gasps, immediately moving away from Ryan. “I wasn’t expecting you to come.”

“Obviously!” Dallon says with a cheeky grin, and Brendon blushes, but doesn’t look at Ryan as he heads over, takes the empty chair on Dallon’s other side. “Who’s that?”

“Who, Ryan?” Brendon shrugs, looks at his lap. “Just... a band mate.”

“Right. Is he queer too? Because personally, I think it’s rude to chase someone so openly.”

“Really?” Brendon laughs derisively. “I thought you were pretty open about chasing me.”

And Dallon really doesn’t appreciate the comparison. “If you know he’s interested in you, why are you encouraging it?” Brendon looks up and meets Dallon’s eyes, but doesn’t say anything, and fear settles in Dallon’s chest, makes him sit up straight and clear his throat, softly ask, “Do you not want me anymore?”

Brendon blinks, his expression turning to surprise before fading into sadness. “Did I say that?” Dallon doesn’t respond, just watches Brendon’s face, and Brendon sighs. “Jesus, Dallon. The attention’s nice, that’s all. After... the past week, with us not talking, and he’s... Ryan’s very charming.” He turns his eyes back to his lap, fiddles with his cufflinks, and it takes all of Dallon’s self-control not to reach over and kiss him right there; he’s missed those kisses, suddenly feels weak and unsteady to think of how long it’s been. Instead, he puts a hand on Brendon’s shoulder, squeezes gently.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “We have a lot to talk about.”

“Not right now.” Brendon glances at his band mates, then meets Dallon’s eyes again, looks earnest. “But soon.”

Dallon nods. Runs a hand through his hair. “Papa wanted me to invite you to dinner soon.”

“Why?”

“Jordan and his fiance are here. Papa thinks you should meet them before the wedding.” Dallon clears his throat. “If you’re planning on staying for the wedding.”

Brendon raises his eyebrow. “I already told you, I’m not going anywhere. But... the club is closed on Sundays. So I could do dinner then.”

“Perfect. I’ll tell Mama.” He meets Brendon’s eyes again, holds his gaze for just a moment, then turns to clap Spencer on the shoulder, dragging him out of his conversation with the shorter man on his other side. “It was great to see you, Spencer. I’ll be back sometime soon.”

Spencer looks surprised. “You’re leaving already?”

Dallon stands and adjusts his coat. “Did what I came to do. I’ll see you when I see you.” He turns to Brendon, and what starts as a statement turns to a question: “I’ll see you at home?”

Brendon gives him a half-smile. “Of course.” When Dallon attempts a smile back and turns to leave, Brendon grabs the sleeve of his jacket. “You should know,” he says in a low voice, “that Ryan’s engaged. To the canary.”

Dallon glances down the table, and sure enough, Ryan has the blonde singer in his lap, feeding her apple slices in exchange for kisses.

It helps. A little. But he has to say it: “For some men, that doesn’t mean anything.”

\------

The front door opens and closes sometime after two in the morning. Dallon is still awake, flat on his back in his bed, watching the ceiling, though he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for; Brendon will probably just go sleep in the bedroom across the hall, and they’ll start avoiding one another again.

The stairs start creaking, and Dallon holds his breath, hoping and trying not to hope. The noise stops, and the house is quiet for a long moment. Then there’s a soft knock on the door, and Dallon exhales in a rush.

“Come in,” he says, sitting up. Brendon slides through the door, closes it behind him. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Brendon answers with a shy smile, starting to remove his red tailcoat. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” Dallon watches, uncertain, as Brendon continues to undress. “How was work?”

Brendon shrugs, hangs his shirt up on the doorknob, starts to undo his belt. “No complaints.”

“Brendon, what are you doing,” Dallon finally asks, pulling his knees up. Brendon raises both eyebrows, lets his white trousers fall to the floor, leaving him in just his underwear.

“Getting ready for bed. That’s all.”

“Please don’t try to seduce me tonight,” Dallon requests, sounding tired, but Brendon laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and crawls into the other side of the bed. “I mean it!”

“I know, kitten,” Brendon chuckles, reaching for Dallon’s hand. “I know, I’ve just... no one’s ever said that to me before. It’s kind of a strange thing to hear, after my previous profession.”

Dallon gets the joke and smiles wanly, lays back down. “I don’t mean to deny you...” he starts, but Brendon puts a hand over his mouth.

“I’ve been fucked more than I ever want to admit. I don’t _need_ that. The only thing you should _never_ deny me again, is a kiss.” He moves his hand to the back of Dallon’s head, leans in close until their noses brush. “I’ve missed you.”

And Dallon allows their lips to touch, even deepens the kiss for a moment, wraps his arms around Brendon and pulls him close, because he’s missed him too. But he pulls back, meets Brendon’s eyes. “This doesn’t make everything better.”

“I know,” Brendon says softly, leaning into Dallon’s chest, eyes closed. “But it’s better than avoiding each other.”


	10. Close Enough

Brendon is busy at rehearsal all day Saturday, and Dallon ends up spending the afternoon with his brothers, at the beach near his parents’ home. It’s cold and windy, the air crisp with impending snow, but Weston likes the fresh air, likes to see something besides the street he lives on, and Jordan, oddly enough, has missed the eastern weather. Dallon comes home with red, wind-whipped skin, and falls asleep before Brendon comes home from work.

But when he wakes up on Sunday morning, still half-dressed, Brendon is asleep in the bed next to him, the morning sunlight casting shadows across his face and Dallon sits up. Smiles. Brushes a lock of hair from Brendon’s forehead. Then leans over to kiss his mouth. He’s unsurprised when Brendon responds, a hand moving to the back of his head to keep him close, but he pulls back anyway, to see Brendon’s smile.

“Good morning,” Dallon says softly. Brendon stretches and sits up, eyes sleepy.

“To you too,” he mumbles, still smiling. “What’s doing?”

And Dallon leans in for another kiss, because this is nice, waking up together. “We should talk.”

“Now?”

“In the breakfast nook.” Dallon runs a hand through Brendon’s hair. “I’ll go downstairs and see what the cook is making, you meet me down there when you’re dressed.”

Brendon looks nervous, but for some reason, Dallon has a good feeling about today. Maybe it was the kisses, lighting a euphoric match, but he can feel happiness bubbling at the back of his brain, and he even volunteers to help the cook, cracking a few eggs open and singing as he does so. When Brendon enters, he takes a seat in the nook and watches with a small smile, though he tries to hide it with his hand, and Dallon is kind enough to pretend he didn’t see, as he sets their plates on the small table, and takes the chair opposite Brendon.

“So you wanted to talk,” Brendon starts, once Dallon has dismissed the help. “About what?”

“About the things we need to talk about,” Dallon shrugs, biting into a piece of toast. “We’re going to dinner at my parents’ place tonight, and the whole purpose is to make sure Jordan and Ruth are used to you, and to the idea of me and you. We’re not going to be able to do that if we’re not even sure where we stand.”

Brendon sets his fork down, leans over the table. “Are you sure you’ll be able to handle anything I might say? You won’t misinterpret me again?”

“Yes. But only if you promise to trust me and not put words in my mouth.”

Brendon takes a deep breath. “Fine. So where do we start?”

Dallon stops to think for a moment, and decides to begin on the question that’s been haunting him since Halloween. “Do I mean anything to you?”

“What?” Brendon looks genuinely surprised. “Dallon, what a question.”

“No, I mean it.” He sighs and puts his hands on the table, stares at his plate. “You said on Halloween night that I didn’t mean anything to you. We were just.... experimenting.”

Brendon’s hand falls over one of Dallon’s. “I think we left ‘experimenting’ in the dust when we left Chicago together,” he says wryly, taking Dallon’s hand in his own. “If you didn’t mean anything to me, I wouldn’t be here. You are...” he pauses, seems to be trying to sort himself out. “You are a lot of things,” he finally mumbles, almost to himself. “You mean a lot of things. Look, Dallon, I was angry that night. All right? I was jealous of Lucy, and I was afraid. Because I wanted you for myself, however stupid that is.” He laughs softly, rests his chin in his free hand. “I guess taking your virginity made me possessive of you. Something did. I didn’t want to share, and I didn’t like remembering that I was going to have to share. So I said things I didn’t mean. And if they’ve been bothering you this much, you should have said so.” He runs his hand up through his hair, still slightly sleep-tousled. “I was ready to apologize. Say... all of this. That night. But you said you didn’t want to see me, and I couldn’t blame you for that.”

“What about when I did come see you?” Dallon asks, voice low. “Why not say it then?”

“And admit to the guy I knew would eventually leave me that I was carrying a torch for him?” Brendon laughs and shakes his head. “I can only admit it now because I know that when you do leave, it won’t be soon and it won’t be without pain on both sides.”

“What are you talking about, leaving? Me leaving you?” Dallon’s offended; it’s not the first time Brendon has said such a thing, but it hurts to learn that he’s still so convinced it will happen. “I’m more worried about you leaving me.”

Brendon laughs, but there's a morose tone to it. "Like I said. It won’t be soon. I know you’re stuck on me. But especially with your mother around, eventually you’ll want to marry and have a family. That's the way things are, and I can't do that for you."

Dallon frowns outright, feels exasperated, "Dammit, Brendon. I'll say it again, and any other time you need to hear it: I want you. I never saw myself as the marrying type and I've never been good with kids. That's not what I want. You are the only thing I want."

"You'll change your mind-"

"Brendon!" Dallon grips Brendon's hand. "You said you'd listen and trust me today. So please. Trust me. Believe me when I say that I don't want to be with anyone else, and I know I never will."

Brendon looks torn, his eyes big. "But how do you know? How do you know that tomorrow you won't walk into the club and meet some pretty tomato and fall in love with her?”

“How do I know that tomorrow you won’t walk into the club and end up in Ryan’s arms when the night is over?” Brendon makes an offended noise, but Dallon continues before he can protest, “I don’t know that. I just have to trust that you’ll come home to me. What have I ever done to make you think I’d leave?”

“Well, _you_ haven’t done anything-”

“Exactly.” Dallon nods, squeezes Brendon’s hand, then releases it. “I haven’t. So trust me.” He tucks back into his breakfast while Brendon stays still, looks thoughtful. After a moment, Dallon glances up again. “Are you all right?”

Brendon blinks, seems to come out of a daze. “Yes,” he says slowly, then smiles. “Yeah. Everything’s jake.”

The sun shines bright through the window, the sound of trains and newsies shouting headlines dim through the glass. And Brendon looks beautiful with a smile that reaches his eyes, and Dallon can’t help but smile back.

 

\------

 

Jordan answers the door that evening, his shirt pressed and hair combed, and Dallon smirks as he leads Brendon inside. “So you finally decided to dress up for me.”

“Well, not everyone can be as dapper as you, but since Mother said we have a guest, I thought I’d try.” He turns to Brendon as Dallon hands his coat to the maid. “I’m Jordan. You are?”

“Brendon. A friend of Dallon’s, from Chicago.” And Jordan looks slightly confused, but Brendon is quick to distract him: “Dallon says you’re a pastor out west somewhere? I was born in southern Nevada.”

“Oh, we’re in Colorado, but don’t you miss the open space?” Dallon smiles as Jordan continues to babble on, leading Brendon back to the dining room, where everyone is waiting around the table. Ellen smiles kindly when she sees Brendon, though her reaction isn’t anywhere near as warm as Weston’s, who makes Brendon come over for a hug. Jordan looks surprised.

“So everyone’s already met him?”

“Dallon brought him for Thanksgiving!” Rose says joyfully, fussing over the buttons on Brendon’s vest. Ruth looks disapproving of her affection, and Dallon has noticed that the two brides have not exactly grown to be fond of one another, to no one’s surprise; Rose is cheerful and helpful, where Ruth leans towards rudeness. Jordan keeps saying she’s not that way at home, that she’s just unhappy being in the city, but it doesn’t really help Rose (or Dallon and Weston, for that matter) in liking her.

“You brought him to a family dinner?” Jordan says, still looking confused. Dallon catches Brendon’s eye, holds his breath, but can’t think of what to say. Everyone is quiet, apparently unsure of how to handle the situation, however much this was the entire point of the dinner. Ellen breaks the silence with a clap of her hands, her smile strained.

“Well! Since we’re all here, let’s eat!”

Dallon barely touches his food. It had never occurred to him, when he arrived in New York, that his family would be so quick to catch on to the nature of his relationship with Brendon. He had never planned to tell them, but they had figured it out anyway, and outside of his mother’s persistent badgering about marriage, they had all seemed fairly supportive. Moreso than he would have expected. But he hadn’t had to tell them outright, the way they’re expecting him to do with Jordan, and he’s not sure what to say.

Brendon keeps glancing at him, knocking their knees together under the table. Ellen is talking to Ruth and Rose about which seamstress they should use for their wedding dresses, while Henry has Weston and Jordan engaged in recounting stories from their childhood. Dallon’s plate is the only one still full, and Brendon sighs, drops his napkin over his plate.

“Dallon,” he says, his voice low, but still able to be overheard, “will you show me to the washroom?”

Ellen stops mid-sentence to glance at them, which makes Rose laugh. Henry pretends he doesn’t notice as the boys get up from their chairs and head out to the hallway.

Once they’re out of the dining room, a decent distance from the door, Brendon stops walking and takes Dallon’s hand, pulls him close. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Brendon raises an eyebrow, the gesture now so familiar that Dallon smiles. “You didn’t eat anything, so don’t tell me you’re fine. Are you nervous?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Dallon confesses, and Brendon nods slowly, reaches his arms around Dallon’s neck. “I think he’ll be all right, if I could just figure out how to say it.” Brendon pulls Dallon’s head down, presses their foreheads together, and as much as Dallon can’t help responding, putting his hands on Brendon’s waist, his eyes dart nervously towards the dining room door. “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel better,” Brendon mumbles, moves to press his lips to Dallon’s neck.

“My family might see,” Dallon whispers back, his voice shaky.

“They’re still talking. We’ll hear them if they decide to go elsewhere.” But when Dallon hesitates to kiss him back, Brendon sighs and pulls away. “Fine. Let’s go to the drawing room. We’ll close the doors.”

Dallon nods, leads the way and closes the doors behind them. They leave the lights off, and Brendon gestures towards the sofa by the window, lets Dallon sit down, then goes to stand behind him, rubbing his shoulders and kissing his neck. And Dallon sighs, tries to let the tension go, tries to enjoy Brendon’s attention. But.

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t like you,” Dallon comments, and Brendon withdraws his hands, goes to sit next to him with a pout. “Were you trying to get us caught?”

“I thought it might be easier than telling him.”

There are voices in the hallway, Rose’s cheerful laughter and Jordan’s booming pastor’s tone. Dallon meets Brendon’s eyes with a little smile.

“You might be right.”

And he leans over to give Brendon a chaste kiss just as the doors swing open and the lanterns flare on.

There’s an initial uproar as Jordan gets angry, but when Rose ends up with the giggles, collapsing into an armchair, and Weston starts to laugh with her, Jordan’s temper simmers and dims into confusion, because no one else in the family is as upset as he is. Ellen seems slightly distressed, but unsurprised, and Henry simply hobbles over to the window, falls into the armchair nearest Brendon, lights his pipe, and raises it to them as if he were proposing a toast. Ruth clings to her fiancee, starts to say something about how she knew jazz was the devil’s music and this proves it, but Weston and Rose both just laugh harder, drowning her out.

“Oh, dear,” Rose finally chokes out, “deary dear, it’s nothing! In the city, it’s nothing. It’s all the rage, and Dallon likes his trends, don’t you?”

While it misses the overall point, Dallon can’t help smiling at Rose. “That I do, sister.”

“Jordan, remember Uncle David?” Weston starts, and Jordan goes pale, turns to Dallon with a stricken look.

“You don’t do that, do you? You aren’t a sissy, right? I... I might be able to ignore this, ignore inversion, being a bachelor, but God help you if you’re a sissy.”

“I’m not!” Dallon protests, blushing at the thought. “I’d never, Jiminy Cricket, Weston, stop comparing me to Uncle David.”

“Well...” Jordan glances at Ruth, who still looks upset, then around at the rest of his family, Weston and Rose still giggling, Henry smoking his pipe as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “Well... I guess as long as you’re not a sissy. And this is just... a trend.”

Brendon’s face falls, and Dallon hopes that they can hold onto what they talked about this morning, that Brendon will continue to trust him despite the things his family says. But Ellen steps forward with a smile on her face, and Dallon’s heart drops.

“Of course! It’s just a little affair. He knows he’ll meet a girl and get married someday. And so will Brendon!” Dallon is unsurprised by his mother’s behavior, but Brendon looks crestfallen. “For the time being they’re just entertaining each other, and we just have to entertain them.”

Jordan is smart enough to look unconvinced, but Ruth is almost in tears, begging to go back home where the good people are, so he sighs. “All right. Fine. I’m taking Ruth to bed now.”

And Dallon wants to stay, wants to confront his mother and tell her to stop, to understand that even if he had never met Brendon, he may not have gotten married and might have been unhappy if he had. But Brendon still looks upset, so Dallon puts a hand on the back of his neck, slips it around to chuck his chin, then stands.

“I think we’ll leave too. We’ve caused enough trouble tonight.”

Rose and Weston see them to the door, and Rose is almost dancing on air, thanking them for scaring Ruth the way they did. “Maybe she’ll finally leave!” She almost sings, and Weston chides her, absently, for being rude, which she waves away. “Your mother was awfully rude to Brendon, right to his face, I think I can be rude when Ruth’s not around.”

And suddenly Brendon launches forward to hug her, making her jump, but she hugs him back until he pulls away, tells her, “God bless you.”

Rose laughs. “Same to you, pal.”

Brendon shivers on the walk down the hill, towards the car; he’d forgotten his coat in the rush to leave this afternoon. “I can’t believe your mother,” he mutters, and Dallon chuckles. “I mean, what’s the point of dragging me all the way down here, introducing me to Jordan, embarrassing me to make sure he understands what I’m doing here... just to tell him it’s an affair. A whim you’ll outgrow.”

Dallon looks at him, that small body shivering in the moonlight, struggling not to slip on the slick ground. “You know she’s wrong, don’t you? This isn’t just an affair to me.”

“I know,” Brendon says softly, and Dallon’s heart skips a beat. “I know, I’m trying to remember that she doesn’t speak for you.” He tugs his short jacket tighter around his shoulders. “It still hurts, though.”

Dallon watches him until they reach the car, where he pulls his raccoon coat off, hands it to Brendon, who gives him a surprised look.

“It’s too big for me, and I don’t want you to get cold-”

“Brendon. Please.”

Brendon sighs and swings the coat over his shoulders, pulling it tight around him as he climbs into the car. When Dallon takes the wheel, starts the car, Brendon glances at him, a pair of big brown eyes over puffs of striped fur.

“Thank you.”

And Dallon smiles.

 

\------

 

At home, they light the fireplace downstairs and fall asleep under a pile of thick blankets, wrapped up in each other, still half-dressed.

 

\------

 

Dallon decides to visit the club again Monday night, giving himself enough time to enjoy more music from the band, though as he sits at the bar, alone, he misses Ian and Jon, and even Zack; Alex, this club’s long-haired bartender, seems thoroughly uninterested in holding a conversation with Dallon, though he’s happily chinning away with the blonde girl at the other end of the bar, the one who keeps glancing at Dallon when she thinks he isn’t looking. It takes a while for him to recognize her as the singer from the other night; tonight, instead of red, her dress is patterned with pink flowers, accompanied with string upon string of pearls on her wrists and neck and even in her hair.

She grins when she catches him staring, and makes her way over to the seat next to him. Dallon’s first reaction is to glance over his shoulder at the stage, where Brendon is playing piano.

“I remember you,” she says in a low voice. “You’re Spencer’s friend that was here Friday night.”

“That’s me,” Dallon says, knocking back his glass of gin and ordering another. “Dallon Weekes, at your service.”

“I’m Elizabeth Berg,” she continues, eyes moving down his torso, then back up to his face. “I sing.”

“And you’re engaged, according to Brendon,” he says nervously, gesturing at the rather large diamond on her finger. She smiles, admires the ring for a moment, then turns her attention back to Dallon.

“So you’re friends with Brendon too. Good to know.” She leans closer to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Has he introduced you to Ryan yet, then? My fiancee? Ryan’s real fond of Brendon.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Dallon says stiffly. “Aren’t you performing tonight?”

She shrugs. “On weekdays they make me wait until after dinner.” Her smile twists slowly into something a bit more seductive, as she leans to rest her chin on Dallon’s shoulder, trails her finger down his chest. “Dinner’s not for another twenty minutes.”

And Dallon’s had enough. He pulls away from her, out of his seat, knocks back the last of his gin and takes a deep breath. “Well it was wonderful to meet you, Elizabeth, but I need a bit of fresh air, so I’ll see you once the band’s done.”

She looks disappointed as he all but scampers for the stairs, waits at the top, peering around the wall, as if he were a child hiding from the monster under his bed. For all he knows that’s exactly what Elizabeth is.

It’s snowing outside, so he takes a seat near coat-check, smokes cigarettes by himself until the crowd below flocks upstairs, dissipates into the upper floor dining rooms. That’s when Dallon snuffs his cigarette against the floor and heads back into the basement. To his surprise, Brendon is still in the room; instead of going with Ryan to fetch dinner, he’s standing against the wall talking to Spencer, smoking a cigarette of his own. Dallon smiles and makes his way toward them, plans to sneak up on Brendon and surprise him, until he can overhear their conversation.

“-ridiculous to be going on this way,” Spencer is saying, a little smirk resting on his lips. “Stop the presses, Elizabeth likes to chase men. The surprising part is that you’re surprised.”

Brendon makes a dismissive noise, and Spencer glances up, sees Dallon, starts to greet him until Dallon presses a finger to his lips. Spencer shrugs and turns away as Brendon takes a drag of his cigarette.

“I’m not surprised that she’d chase him, you know, since he’s kind of,” Brendon exhales smoke, says something Dallon can’t hear, but Spencer laughs. “So I’m not surprised, but... I don’t know.”

Spencer shrugs again, meets Dallon’s eyes over Brendon’s head. “Elizabeth is kind of loose. I figured that out within a couple days.”

“Yes, but why does she have to be the kind of slut that would chase a taken man? My man?”

And Dallon stops breathing. Spencer makes a face at him, which Brendon must have noticed because he finally turns, and his skin drains of color when he realizes Dallon has been standing there. “What did you hear?”

“Taken man?” Dallon grins slowly. “ _Your_ man?”

Brendon clears his throat, looks away as his cheeks flush pink. “Jesus, Dallon,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “Really, I should be mad at you! You, you let her-”

“Stop.” Dallon can’t stop grinning. “If I could kiss you right now, I would.”

“Don’t,” Spencer says dryly, as Brendon falls silent. “For my sake.”

Dallon ignores him, steps closer to Brendon. “Since I can’t do it here, I guess we’ll have to wait until you get home. So don’t keep me waiting tonight.”

Brendon’s full lips start to twitch into a smile, but he glances at Spencer and appears to decide to censor himself. “Is that all you came here to tell me?”

“I just wanted to see my man play some music,” Dallon answers, and Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s all.”

“Then I guess I’ll see you at home.”

“Posilutely.”

Spencer yawns.

 

\------

 

When Brendon arrives at home, Dallon is waiting for him in the drawing room, lounging on the sofa, wearing a loosely tied, white silk smoking jacket, a cigarette between his lips. Brendon approaches him with a smirk, standing next to the couch and crossing his arms.

"Why do I get the feeling you've tried this before?" he remarks as Dallon sits up, lets the smoking jacket fall off one shoulder, baring skin.

"Tried what?" Dallon asks, trying to look innocent.

Brendon gestures at the couch. "You're trying to seduce me."

"What makes you think I've done it before?" Dallon snuffs his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, holds both hands out to Brendon, who shrugs.

"It's working."

"Well," Dallon grins, "I was one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago, for a time. A guy has to earn his reputation somehow."

"Especially if his reputation as a sheik is all a lie." Brendon smiles back, takes Dallon's hands and pulls him to his feet. "Or, well... You are a sheik, but you were pretty good at hiding the truth about your virginity."

“Glad to know it worked when it had to.” Dallon takes a step to the side, starts leading Brendon towards the stairs. “Though I might be a little better at seduction now that I’ve been seduced a few times myself.”

Brendon lets himself be led, though his smile is disbelieving. “What’s this all about, kitten?”

It’s about Dallon getting his confidence back, in himself and in Brendon and in the two of them together. It’s about them being able to smile at each other again, joking around, understanding what’s being said. It’s about Brendon beginning to accept that Dallon has no plans to marry, and claiming Dallon as his own. It’s about how they haven’t had sex since they left Chicago, and Dallon feels like learning something tonight. But he doesn’t respond until they reach the top of the stairs, where he pulls Brendon into him and leans in for a slow, open kiss, his hands running into Brendon’s hair, and Brendon responds with a soft moan. Dallon pushes him against the railing, making low noises of his own as Brendon’s hands finish untying the sash on his smoking jacket. He nibbles at Brendon’s lower lip before pulling away, running his fingertips down Brendon’s arm.

“Hey,” he whispers, their faces still close, “didn’t you have something you wanted to teach me?”

A wicked grin starts to grow on Brendon’s face, his fingernails digging into the skin on Dallon’s waist. He says nothing, just grins for a moment, panting softly, then pushes Dallon off him and nods towards the bedroom. He doesn’t have to say anything; Dallon is already peeling off his smoking jacket as he opens the door, leaves a pool of ivory on the floor in the doorway, and Brendon has to step over it before he can close the door behind them. Dallon starts for the bed, but Brendon grabs his forearm, pulls him back into a bruising kiss, like they can't get close enough.

Their hands fumble against each other as they simultaneously reach for each other's hips; Brendon's hands slide easily into Dallon's pajama pants, guiding them off his waist, but Dallon struggles with Brendon's belt, with the buttons on his trousers, and finally pulls out of the kiss to make a frustrated noise, forcefully pulling on the belt, pressing their hips together. And he's naked and it's not comfortable, but Brendon seems to get the hint, reaches to help with slightly frantic hands.

Once Brendon is finally naked as well, they embrace again, hands skimming over damp skin as their lips press together, the winter air just adding to their need to be close. Dallon's soft hum morphs into a whimper as Brendon pulls away to take a seat on the edge of the bed, but the look on the younger boy's face is enough to set Dallon's heart racing; that eyebrow raised, the upturned corner of his mouth, dark eyes looking up at him through long lashes. Dallon gasps and falls to his knees without Brendon's guidance, positions himself between Brendon's legs and starts to kiss Brendon's chest, though those little kisses somehow become wanton bites, leaving a trail of red marks towards Brendon's stomach. And Brendon is hard, and Dallon is very aware of this, raises his eyes to Brendon's face as he takes hold of Brendon's cock, slides his thumb over the slit, and Brendon's leg jerks, his heel raising off the floor as a rough sound pulls itself from his throat.

"Christ," Brendon gasps, looking down at his partner. "You really want to do this."

Dallon nods almost drunkenly, his head spinning. "You know that, you kept stopping me-"

"Foolish me," Brendon breathes, putting his hand in Dallon's hair. "I thought you weren't ready for it." Dallon meets his eyes, then drags dry lips down the side of Brendon's prick, and when Brendon's breath hitches, his stomach muscles twitching, Dallon presses his nose into the hair at the base of Brendon's cock. "Christ," Brendon says again, his voice cracking. "Do I even have to teach you anything?"

"Let's try and see," Dallon murmurs, moves back, gripping the base of Brendon's prick as he slides his lips over the crown, lets his tongue press flat to the skin. He can taste Brendon, and it's good, in the same way gin is good, though they don't taste the same. It's that sharp bitterness, when Dallon feels like being intoxicated, except that Dallon is already intoxicated, moaning softly as Brendon grips his hair. He almost pulls back, wants to tell Brendon what it's like, but Brendon knows because Brendon likes to do it to him, and now he knows why. A warning tone rings in the back of his head, but he's too focused on Brendon, pressing the tip of his tongue to the slit, sucking gently, trying to elicit more of that taste, and Brendon is making soft, surprised noises, gasping outright when Dallon decides to try and see just how much he can take in. Brendon can swallow Dallon all the way, and it feels incredible, but Dallon gags after not even another inch, and pulls off, looking up at Brendon with a disappointed expression, and Brendon laughs.

"Don't fret, kitten," he says in a ragged voice, moving his hand down Dallon's face to his chin. "You don't have to keep up with me. Hell, I don't think I want you to."

Dallon blinks, surprised. "Why not?"

And Brendon pulls him up for a slow kiss, licking at Dallon’s dry lips. “Because that innocent eagerness of yours drives me crazy,” he whispers, gripping the back of Dallon’s neck. “I want to always be able to surprise _you_.”

Dallon grins, his hands on Brendon’s thighs. “What if I want to surprise you?”

“You surprise me all the time, kitten,” Brendon laughs. “Your boldness can be very surprising, and I like it.”

Dallon leans in, chasing Brendon’s laughter with his mouth, until the giggles fade into a series of small, lewd sounds, and one of Dallon’s hands moves to stroke Brendon’s cock, and Brendon breaks the kiss, keeps Dallon’s face close.

“What is this?” He asks in a low voice, then tilts his head back with a moan, and Dallon leans in to bite the hollow of his throat. “Dallon, Christ, what is all this about?”

“Can’t I just want you?” Dallon mumbles, wrapping his arms tight around Brendon’s waist, pulling him close, sinking his teeth into Brendon’s collar. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this. Brendon?”

It takes a moment; Brendon is panting, focused on Dallon’s mouth, tugging unconsciously on his hair. Finally he grabs Dallon’s shoulder, pushes him away, takes a moment to catch his breath. “What?”

“Remember you told me about the other thing I can do?” Dallon trails his fingers down Brendon’s spine, eliciting a shiver. “Instead of putting my fingers in you?”

Brendon looks confused for a moment, then starts to grin, slowly. He shifts back onto the bed, gestures for Dallon to follow, but when Dallon tries to crawl on top of him, Brendon stops him. “I want you to lay on your stomach,” he says in a low voice. Dallon raises his eyebrows, but complies. “I’ll show you what to do, all right?” Brendon continues, running his hands over Dallon’s back, making Dallon jump when his tongue licks a stripe under each shoulder blade. “You can try it next time, decide if you want to, but tonight just let me show you.”

Brendon leaves wet kisses along Dallon’s skin, laughs as he bites down and leaves a red mark in the small of Dallon’s back, and Dallon grips the blanket, lets out a small noise as his hips shift; his cock has been severely lacking attention tonight, and it almost aches from being trapped against the bed, having to make do with this minuscule, unsatisfying friction. When Brendon’s hands grip his ass, he gasps slightly, jerks his hips again.

“Are you gonna put your fingers in me?” He almost slurs, trying to twist his head around to see, but Brendon just grins up at him and gestures for him to turn around.

“Maybe,” Brendon answers, pressing his lips to the skin on Dallon’s cheek, and Dallon gasps at the familiar sensation in an unfamiliar place. “Is it all right if I do?”

Dallon shifts his hips, shudders, makes a soft “ah” noise when a wet fingertip presses against his hole. “Y-yeah,” he stutters, closing his eyes. “Is that what you were gonna show me?”

“No.” And Dallon’s confused, because Brendon is spreading him open. “You already know how to do that.”

“Then what’re you-” and Dallon cuts himself off with a rough, helpless moan as Brendon’s tongue presses flat to the same spot his finger at just been. Brendon laughs, warm air against damp skin, and Dallon shivers again. “ _Shit_ ,” Dallon gasps, “where did you-”

“Sh,” Brendon hums, and the finger returns, slowly presses inside. It’s wet and it’s strange, and Dallon’s not sure if he likes it or not, but Brendon kisses the small of his back, licks around the digit, and Dallon’s hips jerk back, as if seeking more. “There you are,” Brendon murmurs, almost to himself, and withdraws his hand to open Dallon up again, this time kissing his entrance, pressing the tip of his tongue against it before starting to work it inside. Dallon chokes on a breath, his eyes flying open. He’s never even thought of _this_ , but apparently it’s common enough that Brendon’s had a lot of practice. Because it’s _nice_. Dallon moans softly, pushes his hips back again, then lifts them, reaches beneath to stroke his neglected cock. Brendon laughs as he drags a hand down Dallon’s thigh. “I guess that means you like it.”

Dallon doesn’t answer; Brendon now has two wet fingers probing his hole, and he’s far too distracted by that possibility. He holds his breath, exhales in a rush when both fingers start to make their way inside. It burns a little now, but it’s not entirely unpleasant, and Brendon resumes kissing around the fingers, his tongue fluttering as if he wants to put it inside Dallon as well. And this is still nice, having such intimate attention from Brendon, but outside of Brendon’s talented tongue, Dallon still isn’t sure what it is that Brendon enjoys so much.

He can feel Brendon’s fingers moving inside him, and that in and of itself is a strange feeling that he’s not sure how to handle. Brendon curses, and Dallon gasps slightly when he feels Brendon’s lips on the curve of his shoulder. “Can you roll over?” Brendon asks as he removes his hand, and Dallon frowns.

“It’s over?”

Brendon chuckles, kisses the back of Dallon’s neck. “I can do it again later. I want to show you something else now.”

And at this point, Dallon trusts that Brendon knows best. Brendon knows what feels good and how to do it, so Dallon rolls over, shivers when cold air hits his chest, and Brendon smiles at him, brushes a damp lock of hair from his forehead. “Hello again.”

“Hi,” Dallon breathes. “What are you doing?”

Brendon sits back on his heels, glances over Dallon’s body, then grins. “Having fun with you,” is his answer as he presses a kiss to Dallon’s forehead, crawls between his legs. He sucks his fingers into his mouth again, and Dallon fidgets when he notices there are three, but Brendon still only enters him with two. He uses his other hand to stroke Dallon’s cock, which makes Dallon groan appreciatively. He’s starting to wonder if only some men can really enjoy having something inside them, if maybe he actually isn’t queer at all, though that doesn’t make sense because he definitely enjoyed having Brendon’s prick in his mouth, definitely enjoys everything about Brendon’s body. He writhes a little, and Brendon makes a frustrated noise, adjusts his angle.

And Dallon’s never felt anything like it. His hips lift off the mattress as he shouts towards the ceiling, his hands flying back to grab the headboard. It’s like something exploded inside him, sent pleasure rushing down every nerve, and he can hear Brendon laugh just before that sensation repeats itself, makes him groan again, digging his nails into the wood. This is what Brendon liked so much, this is what Dallon is always looking for when he has his fingers or his cock buried inside him, and God that just makes it that much better, being able to understand what’s happening.

Brendon keeps moving his fingers, crawls over him to bite his chest as Dallon’s hips start to move with Brendon’s rhythm. “Shit,” Brendon breathes, lifting his face so their eyes meet. “Can I fuck you?”

Dallon gasps roughly, stutters over his words. “D-do you want to? I’m not...” he pauses to moan; Brendon won’t stop to let him think, it’s really unfair. “Why? Don’t you like...”

“Yeah,” Brendon nods slowly, but his eyes are focused on Dallon’s chest, his writhing hips. “Yeah, I like it, but I can tell you’ll like it too. If you try it. If you want to.”

Three months ago, if anyone had asked Dallon to try such a thing, Dallon would have been horrifically offended. There would have been curiosity, he can’t deny that, but he would have emphatically said no, without question. But three months ago, Dallon hadn’t known a very passionate, very enchanting boy named Brendon, and he hadn’t known much about the world outside his little circle of speakeasies and house parties. By now, he thinks he’s fallen in love with Brendon, has only avoided admitting it to himself out of embarrassment and uncertainty, not knowing if it’s possible for one man to fall in love with another. But Brendon is smiling at him, gently, his eyes large and dark, lashes long, and Dallon’s heart flutters, skips a beat.

“Brendon,” he breathes, reaches to put a hand in Brendon’s dark, tousled hair. “I want to.”

Because it’s Brendon. Because he wants to share everything with Brendon.

And Brendon smiles.

It starts with kissing, sloppy and wanton, as Brendon starts to ease a third finger into him, and that one hurts, but Dallon tries to focus on Brendon’s mouth, both of his hands now entangled in thick locks of hair. His hips stop shifting, and Brendon’s breathing is ragged as he pulls out of the kiss.

“Are you sure? How does this feel?”

Dallon tries to catch his breath, because Brendon won’t stop moving his fingers, and while it makes it near impossible to focus on any question, it also helps Dallon ignore the sting of all three fingers buried inside him. “It’s jake,” he says finally, gasping, moving his hand to grip the back of Brendon’s neck. “Can you just... do it?”

Brendon watches his face for a moment, then removes his fingers, reaches for the hair oil that Dallon keeps on the bedside table, just like he did in Chicago. He quickly slicks himself up, then lifts Dallon’s hips. The tip of his cock presses to Dallon’s entrance, and Dallon leans his head back, holds his breath as Brendon pushes forward. And this hurts. This really hurts and Dallon reaches to grip the headboard again, eyes clenched, but Brendon doesn’t stop, keeps sliding in, though he’s kind enough to lean over and kiss Dallon again, stroke his cock with his still-slick hand. Once he’s all the way in, he pulls out of the kiss, bumps his nose against Dallon’s.

“How’s this?” he asks, his voice husky, though his eyes seem genuinely concerned. Dallon puts a hand on the side of Brendon’s face as he moves his hips slightly, winces, because it’s so strange, to have something there, something so big, but he lets out a breath.

“Are you bigger than you look?” he asks finally, and after a pause, Brendon starts to laugh, leaning his forehead against Dallon’s shoulder.

“Christ,” he sighs, smiling, and that smile is still so surprisingly gentle and affectionate, considering the fact that his prick is buried in Dallon’s ass. “Christ, I just...” But he stops himself, leans in for another kiss as he rolls his hips, little movements that hurt, but Brendon’s still stroking his cock, and his mouth is warm and soft. It makes it easier when Brendon’s thrusts start to deepen, start to reach places Dallon never could have imagined would ever be touched by another person. Then Brendon pulls almost all the way out, changes his angle, and that engulfing pleasure devours Dallon again, and this time, he surrenders to it, completely. The noises he makes are louder, almost animal, compared to how reserved he usually tries to be, but Brendon responds to it with sounds of his own.

Their eyes meet after Dallon figures out how to move his hips with Brendon’s, making himself more receptive, and Brendon traces his hand down Dallon’s face to his shoulder to his arm until their fingers link, pressed into the bed. Brendon leans in for another kiss, his rhythm picking up, his thumb pressed to the skin under the crown of Dallon’s cock, and the kiss slows until their lips part and their eyes meet again.

And Dallon can’t imagine not having those big brown eyes, that lovely face, in his life. He is in love with Brendon. There’s no question anymore.

A soft whimper escapes Brendon’s mouth, and he tightens his grip on Dallon’s hand. His rhythm is erratic but quick, and he presses their cheeks together, rough and in need of a shave, and Dallon can’t resist the expanse of skin now before him. He bites a little too hard on Brendon’s neck, and Brendon responds by tightening his grip on Dallon’s cock, and one more well-placed thrust is all it takes for Dallon to fall over the edge, biting harder on another patch of skin, muffling the cry he can’t hold back as he spills over Brendon’s fist, clenches tight around his cock, and Brendon keeps fucking him, until he cries out as well, comes hard.

And Dallon, still trying to catch his breath, watches the expression on Brendon’s face and feels thoroughly claimed. Brendon has been the one to introduce him to so many things now that Dallon can’t help but truly think of himself as a taken man. As Brendon’s man.

His heart skips a beat, but he says nothing.

They lay together for a brief moment, until Brendon props himself up with shaky arms and pulls out, collapses on his side next to Dallon, still breathing heavily. He slides his arms around Dallon’s chest and cuddles into his neck.

“No girl would ever be able to do that for you,” Brendon comments, and it sounds like he’s trying to make a joke, but there’s a possessive honesty underlining his words, so it’s not funny. Dallon takes a deep breath, tries to figure out what that means.

“Bren,” he says after a moment, “I think you made me queer.”

And it works. It takes a few seconds, but laughter starts to bubble up from Brendon’s throat, and he giggles into Dallon’s shoulder, squeezing him tight, and whatever tension was looming over them vanishes, so Dallon laughs too, buries his nose in Brendon’s soft hair.

They pull the blankets over their bare skin and cuddle in close, fall asleep entangled in each other once more.

 

\------

 

Over the next week, it starts to snow. Christmas is looming around the corner, and just beyond that is Weston’s wedding, so Ellen is constantly telephoning and begging Dallon to come to Sands Point and help her with the Christmas tree, or the lights, or the seating arrangement, or anything else she decides to panic over. Today, she called him to help her set up his old Lionel train set around the tree, for Henry’s Christmas party, so their friends’ children have something to admire. Frankly, Dallon thinks the whole thing is ridiculous, though on the train ride back into the city, he starts to think about getting a tree for the townhouse, and what he should get for Brendon.

He shakes the dusting of snow from his cap and jacket as he walks in the door, then picks up the mail as he heads for the drawing room, settling down on the sofa, where his copy of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ is still open. He’s come to love his books, but the thought struck him this morning that he’s bored. Not in the same way he was bored in Chicago, where he could entertain himself for a few moments before becoming bored again and working himself into an awful, repetitive cycle. No, Dallon is bored of living like the pampered child he is. Brendon has a job, is always busy, and Dallon doesn’t really want to spend his days with his mother while he waits for Brendon to come home. He did study business at university, and somehow managed to graduate, so he’s been considering discussing his possibilities with Henry, if he could get a moment away from his very anxious mother.

His train of thought stops when he flips through the mail and sees an envelope addressed to Brendon. This one is a letter, not a telegram, and the postmark says Nevada. Dallon frowns, hardly glances up when the front door opens, slams shut, and Brendon calls from the foyer: “Spencer wants you to come by tonight-- what’s that?”

“You tell me,” Dallon answers. “It’s for you.” Brendon’s cheeks are pink, and it’s hard to tell if he’s blushing or not, even as he approaches to take a seat on the sofa next to Dallon. “And don’t say you forgot to tell me if you just decided not to tell me.”

Brendon takes the envelope and starts to open it with a sigh. “I just thought... there was this neighboring farm a couple miles away from ours, and we were close to the family. Hell, we thought my sister was going to marry one of their boys, so... I thought I’d write and see if they were still there, if they know anything.” He pulls the letter out, skims it, sighs again. “And they don’t. Apparently the Uries didn’t socialize much after losing all three of their boys.”

He doesn’t look as upset this time, probably because he wasn’t expecting anything new, however much he might have hoped; Brendon, Dallon’s noticed, is very good at separating his hopes from his expectations. And as much as Dallon doesn’t like to think of how he might lose Brendon to his family, he can’t help feeling sorry for him, if only because Brendon seems to want to see his family this badly.

“Well... how about we try a new tactic.”

“Like what?”

Dallon thinks for a moment. “Newspaper ads? Hell, I’ll even pay for it. Spot for a reward if anyone has information on their whereabouts.”

Brendon looks skeptical. “We can’t just post ads in every paper in the country, Dallon.”

“I know. But we can start in New York. It’s better than not doing anything, don’t you think?”

And Brendon ponders the idea for a moment, then turns to Dallon with a strange light in his eyes, something that’s been there since the night Brendon claimed Dallon as his own, something that Dallon hasn’t been able to place yet. “Dallon... you’re the cat’s pajamas. Can we really try?”

“Absotively,” Dallon grins, trying to hide his real aversion to the thought of finding Brendon’s family. “Just tell me all about your parents and your sisters, and I’ll pay for the ads to run for a month or two, offer up a century as a reward if anyone knows anything. All right?” He puts a hand on Brendon’s shoulder, leans in to kiss his temple, and Brendon keeps giving him that look.

“Why are you doing this?”

Dallon just looks back, and reaches for Brendon’s hand. The honest answer is nothing more or less than love, but he still can’t bring himself to say it.

“I just want you to be happy,” he says softly. It’s close enough.


	11. An Intricate Dance

“Christ, Dallon.”

This is probably a bad idea. But Dallon has found himself becoming very passionate about Brendon, more so in the couple days since he let himself be claimed, and after what Brendon told him tonight, he couldn’t quell that dark, possessive anger in his heart, felt an undeniable urge to claim Brendon again as well, and he leans in to bite Brendon’s neck, just under a fading violet mark, still present from their last excursion in the sheets. Brendon’s breath hitches, his hands scrambling down Dallon’s bare back to grip his backside, press their hips together, and Dallon groans, bites down again.

“You know,” Brendon gasps, “that mark is what got Ryan so interested.” His hips start to writhe when Dallon sucks his fingers into his mouth, starts to push them into Brendon’s entrance. The younger boy just isn’t getting the point.

“Then you tell Ryan that those marks are a warning,” Dallon says calmly, leaning in to take a bite near Brendon’s hipbone. “You’re a marked man, dollface, and anyone else who tries to touch you will have to answer to me.”

Brendon gives a breathy laugh, his hips moving with the thrust of Dallon’s fingers. “I’m not sure if that’s going to scare anyone.”

It should. It really should, and Brendon moans when Dallon crooks his fingers, fits his mouth around the head of Brendon’s cock. The thought of Ryan trying to kiss Brendon, trying to touch him, trying to bed him, just ignites a possessive fury in Dallon, makes him want to either break Ryan’s nose or do just what he’s doing now: fuck Brendon in such a way that no one will be able to assume he’s not spoken for.

“ _Christ_ , you’re taking this better than I thought,” Brendon manages to comment as Dallon turns his mouth towards Brendon’s inner thigh, kissing gently before biting hard. “I thought you’d get in a lather and kick me out.”

“Never,” Dallon answers with a frown, lifting his head. “It’s not your fault that Ryan’s the kind of cat who thinks he can have his cake and eat it too.” He sits up, withdraws his fingers and leans over, brushing their lips together. “You said you turned him down, and I believe you. What reason would I have to kick you out?”

Brendon giggles, puts both hands in Dallon’s hair. “Sorry. I guess I’m still not used to... to you being you.”

Dallon’s not sure what that means, but he kisses Brendon anyway, wet and heated, pulling Brendon’s lower lip between his teeth as he pulls away, reaches for the hair oil, and Brendon whimpers in anticipation. Dallon likes that. He likes it even more now that he understands it, knows what Brendon’s feeling as he pushes himself in, though Brendon seems to suffer less than he did. But Dallon still takes his time, with slow, deep thrusts, and he makes sure to keep his angle right, to hit that pleasure center each time, make Brendon twitch and moan, his ankles hooking behind Dallon’s back, and Dallon speeds up but only a little, only enough to make Brendon squirm against the sheets, panting, gripping Dallon’s shoulders.

“Maybe you’re-” Brendon gasps, digging his nails into Dallon’s skin, “maybe you’re punishing me after all.”

“How?” Dallon suddenly pushes in hard, and Brendon’s back arches. “Don’t you like this?”

Brendon makes a rough noise, then grips Dallon’s hair, pulls him in for a loose, sloppy kiss. “Jesus Christ, Dal, where the hell do you pick up this shit?” he slurs against Dallon’s lips, and Dallon’s not sure how to answer. He just tries things. After tonight, after Ryan coming on so strong that Brendon decided to come home early, Dallon wants to embed himself in Brendon’s presence, make it so that men like Ryan will be able to know that Brendon is taken. He wants Brendon to think of this every time he looks at Ryan, think of Dallon’s face and lips and teeth and cock, so that he won’t give in to Ryan’s advances because there’s something better waiting for him at home. He wants to reassure himself that he can please Brendon, that he doesn’t have to worry about losing him as long as he can do this.

Then Brendon grabs his ass, tries to pull him in deeper, whines, “You’re thinking too much,” and sinks his teeth into Dallon’s shoulder. Dallon growls, speeds up his thrusting, reaches between them to fondle Brendon’s cock. Brendon’s back arches again, accompanied with a ragged groan, and Dallon moves in for another kiss, deep and searing.

His rhythm becomes irregular, and Brendon’s hands grip his hair, tugging gently, then not-so-gently. Conversation is impossible at this point, with Dallon closing his eyes, finally able to push away thoughts of Ryan’s deviance, and focus on Brendon, on that moment when Brendon’s eyes roll back just before he comes, his hips jerking recklessly, as if unsure of which pleasure to chase. And Brendon lets out a contented sigh, a few soft noises as Dallon leans in for a kiss, still fucking into him, and he chuckles to himself when Dallon finally bites hard on his neck, the sensitive skin already a dull red from his earlier assault, and comes with a feral grunt.

Dallon nestles against Brendon’s shoulder, kisses each red mark to seal it in place, to apologize for letting his anger get the better of him. He doesn’t pull out until Brendon relaxes his legs, and leans in for a slow kiss as he settles back onto the bed next to him, a hand resting warmly, possessively on Brendon’s stomach, not caring about the mess.

“So,” Brendon sighs, eyes closed, still trying to catch his breath, “what was that all about?”

“What do you mean?”

Brendon opens one eye, raises the same eyebrow. “I come home, tell you Ryan Ross noticed one of your bite wounds and took me for an easy mark, that I told him to take a powder, and your answer to all that is to fuck me?”

Dallon blushes, rolls onto his back to look at the ceiling. “It’s dumb, I know. I’m a sap,” he murmurs; with his head no longer clouded with lust or anger, it’s clearer now that his thought process was muddled, instinctive, ridiculous. “I just want Ryan to know that you’re not on the market. You’re mine.”

“I know that,” Brendon says softly, his hand sliding down Dallon’s arm, interlacing their fingers. “If I know that, you don’t have to worry about Ryan.”

Dallon nods slowly; he knows that too, deep down.

They burrow under the blankets for warmth, and lay in silence for several moments, curled in close. Dallon is almost asleep when Brendon murmurs, “I should tell you something else.”

Dallon mumbles a nonsensical response.

“When I turned him down, he offered to have Elizabeth join us.”

Dallon’s eyes fly open, and he sits up on an elbow to look down at Brendon, who’s blushing in the moonlight, the blanket covering half his face. “What? You mean... like you could have her if you wanted?”

“No, like it would be me, Ryan, _and_ Elizabeth in the bed. All at the same time.” He swallows, reaches for Dallon’s arm. “I didn’t know what to say, so I left. I just turned around and left.”

Dallon shakes his head, unable to comprehend the kind of person Ryan must be. It’s bad enough to chase men while he’s engaged, but to invite his fiance to join him in his trysts? And what kind of girl is Elizabeth to partake? Dallon falls onto his back with a heavy sigh, faintly murmurs, “Jiminy Cricket.”

“I know,” Brendon responds, and Dallon turns to look at him. “Even being... what I was, I’ve never had anyone ask me to do that before.”

And Dallon knows that, according to the law, he’s a sexual deviant too. The things he’s done with Brendon are condemned by the government and the Bible, and even in today’s society where everyone has broken the law by taking a few drinks, where a lot of men and women are willing to try kissing their own sex, if they were to be too open around the wrong people, they could be arrested. But Dallon loves Brendon, even if he can’t bring himself to say it yet, and has been faithful and plans to be faithful for the rest of his life. Inviting a third person into the marital bed is just... _wrong_. It defeats the purpose of marriage. It defeats the purpose of love.

Brendon is watching him, waiting for a response. Dallon takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know if you should keep working there.”

Brendon’s eyes widen, and it’s his turn to sit up, shocked. “Are you off your nuts?” He says, and this is so familiar. Dallon rubs his eyes and groans in frustration.

“I’m just saying. I know Club Fronton pays well and the musicians are better, but... are these really the kind of people you’re expected to be around? Murderers in Chicago, deviants in New York... Spencer thinks Ryan and Elizabeth are communists. Did you know that?”

Brendon pulls his lower lip into his mouth. “I... I know. Alex too. Maybe Gabe. They all live in Greenwich Village, in the same apartment building.”

“So you understand why I’m concerned.”

The younger boy seems to think about it for a moment, worrying his lower lip, the pale skin on his back shining blue in the moonlight. “I have to be able to take care of myself, Dallon. The jazz scene is safer than the sex trade, and those are the only two things I know.”

Dallon sits up and slides an arm around Brendon’s waist, pulling him close, kissing at his ear. “You don’t have to be able to take care of yourself. You have me.”

Brendon wraps both arms around Dallon’s neck, sighing. “Just in case,” he says softly. “I want my own livelihood. Just in case.”

And that hurts, but Dallon lets his head fall onto Brendon’s shoulder, where the skin is still raw with teeth marks. “So that’s it? What about Ryan?”

“I tell him no until he understands. He’s charming, but it’s not the kind of charming that I’m so fond of.” There’s a smile in his voice as he whispers in Dallon’s ear, and Dallon lifts his head to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Ryan is... is a lot like you used to be, actually,” Brendon says, sounding mildly surprised. “He’s arrogant and rude and far too bold.”

Dallon doesn’t like the comparison. “You ended up giving in to me.”

“No, I ended up seducing you,” Brendon corrects with a smile. “Because you were like that, but it wasn’t really you. There was something sweeter lurking underneath. Something better. You charmed me with your innocence, your honesty, your enthusiasm.” He puts a hand on the side of Dallon’s face, leans in until their foreheads touch. “You liked me for reasons I still don’t understand. Ryan likes me ‘cause he thinks I’m easy. If you’re actually worried about me running off with him, you’re a sap and I should sock you.”

Dallon smiles slightly, mumbles, “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am sure, kitten.” Brendon briefly kisses his mouth, then lays back down, and Dallon follows suit, pulling him in close. Brendon fits his nose into the curve of Dallon’s neck and sighs, murmurs, “I’ll be here as long as you want me.”

 

\------

 

Even with their conversation the night before, Dallon makes sure to stop by Club Fronton the following night, dressed in his tailcoat with a peach-toned shirt underneath, to keep himself noticeable, even if all he does for most of the night is sit at the bar and watch the band play. A few girls approach him for a dance, but he turns them all down, keeps his interest focused on Brendon at his piano, and Ryan on the other end of the stage with his ukulele. Seeing the two of them together, the way Ryan tends to casually walk towards Brendon’s side of the stage, smiling that smug smile, makes Dallon’s stomach turn.

“I’m guessing you’re just a jazz fan.”

Dallon turns to see Elizabeth sitting next to him at the bar, smiling with white teeth and red lips, and he coughs, casually takes a sip of his gin. “What makes you think that?”

“I see you in here all the time, but you never dance! You sit here and watch the stage. Even when I’m not on it,” she laughs, places a hand over her chest. “So I guess you come here for the music.”

Dallon turns back to the stage. Brendon is out of his chair again, dancing as he plays, and the New York crowd appears to love his enthusiasm as much as the Chicago crowd did. “Sure,” he murmurs, “you caught me.”

She laughs delightedly, kicks a leg out off the barstool, then crosses it over her other leg. Her kohl-rimmed eyes watch him over the glass of her drink as she says, “That’s no fun at all.”

“Then what would you consider fun?”

“Dancing,” she answers quickly. “Singing. Drinking.” She slides an arm around Dallon’s waist; he jumps when her small hand grips his shirt. “Card games. Swimming.”

He removes her hand and shifts away, shaking his head. “You can’t go swimming this time of year.”

“I can swim in my bathtub,” she argues, taking a sip of her drink, then smirking knowingly at him. “I can swim in my bedsheets.”

Dallon raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess: naked?”

Elizabeth laughs, curls into herself in a way that shows off her bare shoulders, her long legs, her well-turned ankles. “Oh, so you’ve been around a few times yourself? Then why do you run from me?”

“I ran from you once, and it’s because you’re engaged. Ladies shouldn’t behave this way,” but he stops when she starts to laugh.

“Goddamn, it’s like you’re my father!” She giggles cheerfully, her gloved hand sliding down his arm. “I can change your mind. It doesn’t bother Ryan if I bring another man to bed. Hell,” she leans in close, her other hand making its way under Dallon’s jacket, “sometimes he’ll even join in.”

Dallon moves off his barstool, and grabs both of her wrists, holding them away. “Bank’s closed, sweetheart,” he says, his head spinning at the idea that he was propositioned the same way Brendon was, that Elizabeth really is that kind of girl. She pouts at him, eyes big.

“Is there a lady in your life?” She asks in a cooing tone, almost condescending. “I never see you bring any girls with you, so maybe she doesn’t approve? If you can come here without her knowing, you can come home with me without her knowing.”

And Dallon has had enough. He all but pushes himself away from Elizabeth, his slick hair coming loose. “I’m not that kinda man!” he flusters as he adjusts his clothes, slides his hands through his hair, blushing and trying not to meet her eyes.

“Every man’s that kind of man,” she responds, stepping close to him. “They can’t resist temptation, even when they’re in love.”

“Then maybe I just love him too much!” Dallon snaps without thinking. Elizabeth blinks rapidly, her eyebrows raising as he claps a hand over his mouth. With her insinuations that Ryan likes to indulge in men sometimes, he’s not worried about her reaction to that. No, he’s instantly ashamed that Elizabeth is the first person to hear him say it aloud. “Shit,” he mutters behind his fingers, then turns to the stage.

The song is ending, and Ryan has made his way back to Brendon’s side of the stage, has taken the piano chair as his own, and Brendon sits down next to him after the last chord, laughing brightly. Ryan grins and leans back against Brendon’s shoulder as he starts to pluck the opening melody of the next song, and Dallon can see Brendon’s flushed cheeks from the bar, can see the soft smile on his face, that he doesn’t shrug Ryan off or make him feel unwelcome even as he starts to play along, his piano harmonies mixing perfectly with the ukulele refrain. He can see the dark red marks on Brendon’s neck, just above the collar, marks that he so carefully placed the night before, and he can see all this.

Dallon clenches his fists. Turns to Elizabeth.

“Dance with me.”

It’s not a request. She recoils slightly, eyes darting at the stage. “Oh,” she murmurs, just before taking his offered hand. “Oh.”

He leads her to the dance floor, takes her by the waist, holds her close. He knows, if Brendon notices, he’ll be angry and hurt, the same way he was with Lucy. But Dallon’s hurt too. It makes his heart ache to see Ryan so close to Brendon, and Brendon not only allowing Ryan to continue flirting, but _smiling_ as he does so.

Elizabeth clears her throat, bringing his attention back to her. “You know,” she says softly, “I do love Ryan.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Dallon answers, rolling his eyes. She sniffs, looks offended.

“There are lots of ways to love people,” she continues. “He has... certain _tastes_ , and I let him indulge them. Sometimes I even help. That’s not wrong. And it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me either.”

This feels like a speech she often tells herself, and Dallon feels a little guilty. “Fair enough,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

They fall quiet for a moment longer, not looking at each other, before Elizabeth takes a deep breath, asks, “It’s Brendon, isn’t it?”

Dallon hesitates before nodding.

“Ryan’s very interested in him.”

“I know.” Dallon swallows, gives a short laugh. “I don’t blame him.”

Elizabeth glances at him, looks nervous. “Did Brendon tell you about yesterday?”

“You mean, Ryan noticing the marks I left on Brendon’s neck and assuming it meant Brendon was an easy target? Yes, he might have mentioned that.”

“That’s all he said?”

“He might have added that you were thrown in to try and sweeten the bargain. I’m not sure.” Dallon scoffs. “Why?”

Elizabeth worries her lower lip, tilts her head. “I was there. I saw... Brendon was very angry. He shoved Ryan. Punched him. It scared me, really, I always thought he was so gentle...”

Dallon laughs aloud. “When Brendon’s angry, he doesn’t think. He’s socked me before too.”

She frowns in confusion. “Yes, well... he didn’t seem to appreciate Ryan’s advances at all. He kept arguing that he was taken, and... and Ryan said that that didn’t stop him.” She sighs and lifts her face to look at Dallon, eyes wide. “And Brendon said that love doesn’t work that way. Not for him.”

Dallon stops dancing. He continues to hold Elizabeth close, keeps her hand in his, but stops moving his feet. “What?” he breathes. She stares at him with her eyebrows raised.

“He’s never told you that he loves you?”

Dallon shakes his head. “No. Never.”

Elizabeth smiles, almost to herself. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be so jealous after all,” she murmurs. “Does he know you love him?”

And Dallon has a lot of reasons for not telling Brendon how he feels. The fear of being rejected, of being laughed at, being told that men can’t love each other and he’s wrapped up in an impossible romantic ideal. Even knowing that Brendon might feel the same doesn’t negate those fears: Brendon is finicky. There is a part of Dallon that honestly believes that, if he mentioned his feelings, Brendon might admit that they’re returned, then decide that the entire situation is too much, too frightening, and he’d leave for Chicago, for anywhere, to allow their love to wane.

“I can’t,” is all he says, turning away from her, completely ashamed. He starts to push his way off the dance floor, wants to go home and crawl into bed and pretend he doesn’t know what Elizabeth told him. She’s following, calling his name, and he finally turns when he reaches the bar.

“Look,” she says, adjusting her dress, “you’re a decent guy. And if you and Brendon are... pretty serious about this, you know, being... bachelors?” She shrugs, lets her hands fall to her sides. “I’ll try to get Ryan to lay off.”

Dallon raises his eyebrows, genuinely surprised. “Could you?”

“I could try.” She laughs a little, adjusts some of the feathers in her hair. “It might do us both some good if I put my foot down every once in a while. Might as well start here.”

Dallon isn’t sure what to say. He stares at her for a long moment, then pulls her in for a hug. She yelps in surprise, but ends up hugging him back. When he pulls away, he chucks her chin, meets her eyes.

“You’re too good for a number like Ryan.”

Elizabeth laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t know about that. I’m the one who’s jealous of a pair of nancies, after all.”

“Don’t be.” Dallon kisses her hand. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

She’s blushing, giggling, utterly charmed. “Don’t mention it.”

 

\------

 

Dallon is jolted out of a sound sleep when his bedroom door slams open and Brendon storms in, starts tearing through the bed sheets.

“Jiminy Cricket,” Dallon yawns, sitting up, “Brendon, what the hell are you doing?”

Brendon kicks the bed, turns to face him, and Dallon shrinks away from the turbulent look on his face. “Where is she,” Brendon demands slowly, tearing the bedcovers off, then falling to his knees to search under the bed. “Goddammit, Dallon, where the fuck is she?!”

“Who?!” Dallon asks, getting out of bed just as Brendon heads for the wardrobe and the chiffonier, tears through each before throwing them to the floor. “Shit, Brendon, what the devil’s gotten into you?”

“Where the hell is Elizabeth?!” Brendon screams, and Dallon takes a few steps back as Brendon approaches him, grabs the collar of his pajamas. “I _saw_ you dancing with her, so don’t _lie_ to me!”

“She’s not at the club?” Dallon mewls, completely bewildered. “That’s where I last saw-” He’s cut off when Brendon lands a punch to his stomach, and he doubles over when Brendon pulls away, leans against the wall. “Damn,” he coughs, glancing up as Brendon throws the curtains open, “what was that for?”

“I _told_ you not to lie to me, so fucking tell me where she is. _Now_!” When Dallon doesn’t answer, Brendon throws his hands in the air and leaves the room. Dallon hobbles to the doorway, can hear Brendon throwing things in the water closet, then the bathroom.

“Brendon!” Dallon huffs, leaning against the doorjamb. “She’s not here!” Brendon emerges from the bathroom, approaches Dallon again, and Dallon curls in on himself, puts his hands over his head. “Don’t hit me!”

“She’s not at the club!” Brendon snaps. “She was supposed to start singing after the dinner break, but she never showed up! _You_ were the last person anybody saw her with!”

“I don’t know where she is!” Dallon argues, trying to stand up, hold his ground. “I swear I didn’t bring her here, and I wouldn’t, you _know_ I wouldn’t!”

“I don’t _know_ that!” And Dallon’s jaw drops, because there are tears in Brendon’s eyes, sobs that he’s fighting to keep down. “I don’t know that, I know that you’ve never been with a woman and that you _say_ you’ll be faithful, but words are just words, Dallon! And I also know how curious you are, especially in bed, I’ve seen it with my own eyes!”

“I’d _never_!” Dallon breathes, completely shocked, a hand still on his aching abdomen. “Not with Elizabeth, not with _any_ woman, Jiminy _Cricket_ , Brendon!”

But Brendon isn’t listening anymore. He’s moved to one of the guest bedrooms, started tearing it apart as well, then makes his way down the creaky staircase to start pushing around their Christmas tree, throwing their presents, pushing over the sofa, screaming with frustration when his efforts prove fruitless. “I _know_ you brought her home, Dallon, just _tell_ me where you hid her!”

And Dallon is utterly at a loss. He’s made it down the stairs, surveying the damage as Brendon moves for the foyer, starts digging through the coat closet. The telephone starts to ring in the kitchen, and when Brendon slams another door, Dallon starts to run, lifts the receiver to his ear. “Hello, who is this?”

“Dallon? It’s Spencer, where’s Brendon?”

There’s a crash in the dining room, and Dallon shakes his head. “Tearing my house apart, why?”

“What? We... we found Elizabeth. She’s been here the whole time, she went to play poker in one of the rooms upstairs, lost track of time.”

“Sweet merciful lord,” Dallon mutters, putting the receiver on top of the box before he goes to the dining room. Brendon has overturned the table, is opening the cabinets where Ellen’s old china is kept. “ _Brendon_!” He yells, “Spencer is on the line. For you. About Elizabeth.”

And Brendon’s head pops out of the cabinet. “What about Elizabeth?”

“Go fucking talk to Spencer!” Because Dallon has had enough of this. Brendon blinks in surprise, still unused to Dallon saying that word, but he slams the cabinet doors shut and makes his way into the kitchen, lifts the receiver to his ear.

“What? She what?” The tension disappears from Brendon’s shoulders, and he sounds tired when he speaks next: “Oh. Oh, I see. No, I don’t think I’ll be coming back in tonight. See you.” He hangs up the receiver, doesn’t look at Dallon, who crosses his arms over his chest.

“So.”

Brendon coughs.

“Well?”

Brendon mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re damn fucking right you’re sorry!” Dallon yells, and this time it’s Brendon’s jaw that drops. “Coming in here like a damn tornado, telling me I’ve got some woman in my bed, Jiminy _Cricket_ , Brendon, are you never going to trust me?”

And Brendon still won’t look at him. His red tailcoat is undone, stained with something he must have overturned somewhere, and his hair is all out of place, hanging in his eyes. “I said I’m sorry.”

“You turned my house upside-down! Over _nothing_! Damn, Brendon.” Dallon throws his arms in the air, makes his way to the breakfast nook, collapses into a chair. “You’re impossible.”

To his surprise, Brendon takes the chair across from him, hides his face in his hands. “I know,” Brendon murmurs, “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry, I can’t believe I... damn. I’m so stupid.”

“Just because I dance with a woman doesn’t mean I’m going to bring her home,” Dallon says stiffly. “Haven’t we talked about this?”

“You didn’t just dance with her!” Brendon says, sounding desperate. “I saw the whole thing! You were talking to her and she was touching you, and you hugged her and kissed her hand and what the hell was I supposed to think?!”

“You can’t talk!” Dallon argues. “You’re still letting Ryan get away with trying to chase you! The least you could do is tell him not to chase you _on stage_!”

“That doesn’t excuse you and Elizabeth!”

“It does, because that was innocent! I can’t believe you!” Dallon gets out of his chair, slams his fist on the table. “I chase after you like a lost puppy from the moment I saw you at the Tap, I invite you into my home, give you an opportunity to perform! I let you live in my house, I pick you over Lucy, I’m there for you when you’re scared, when you’re upset... I was willing to stay in Chicago for you! For _your_ sake, I would have stayed there. And then when you finally decide to come with me, I pay for your ticket, I introduce you to my family, I give you an open door to leave whenever you want... _what_ have I done to _ever_ make you think that I don’t worship the ground you walk on? And after yesterday! You tell me to trust you around Ryan, but you can’t give me the same luxury? I give you _everything_! Fucking _everything_ , because I’m _crazy_ about you, and you’re going to come in here and tell me you can’t at least _trust_ me?”

There are tears on Brendon’s face as he looks up at Dallon, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. Silence falls for a moment as Brendon chokes on his words, reaches to grip Dallon’s hand.

“Dallon, I’m sorry,” he breathes, “you’re right and I’m so sorry.”

“You said you’d try to trust me,” Dallon mutters.

“I know. I’m sorry. Jesus Christ, Dallon, please.” Brendon runs a hand through his hair. “Please don’t kick me out.”

“There you go with that shit too.” Dallon puts both hands on Brendon’s face, leans in for a gentle kiss. “Jiminy Cricket, Brendon. Just... give in. I’ll be here, I promise. Just stop resisting.”

And when Brendon stands up, pulls Dallon in for another kiss, it’s different. Dallon’s not entirely sure how, but there’s something about the way Brendon leans into him, wraps his arms around Dallon’s neck, that feels closer. Easier. And when Brendon leans away, his eyes are still shiny, and Dallon is so in love with him.

“You’re perfect,” Brendon sighs. “What can I ever do to make up for tonight?”

“You’re helping clean up in the morning, that’s for damn sure.” Dallon says with a hesitant smile. “And you’re coming to my parents’ house for Christmas. No excuses.”

Brendon laughs, kisses him again. “Fair enough.”


	12. Of Saints and Siblings

Christmas morning comes sunny, bright, and snowless, which Brendon laments as they sit in bed and sip warm coffee. The air is still cold, their skin flushed pink, but Dallon likes the sunshine. It's hopeful and optimistic, perfect weather for such a happy day. One of the maids even agreed to work this morning, for double pay and the chance to go home once Dallon and Brendon left for Sands Point. Since Dallon surprised her yesterday with an extra fifty dollars, she woke them up this morning with pancakes and fruit syrup, fresh coffee and eggs, and didn't even act surprised at discovering that they shared a bed, which so far only the butler had been aware of.

"I bought you something," Brendon says, setting his silver tray aside. Dallon raises his eyebrows.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Yes I did. I'm not some penniless street rat anymore, Dallon, I make a lot of money and I don't often get the opportunity to spend it, with you around. So I'm glad that I could at least spend it on you."

"Well, all right, because I bought you something too," Dallon counters. "It won't arrive until tomorrow, but I can at least give you the window ad."

"The window ad?"

"Yes, so you can see a picture of it." Dallon grins and swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his dressing gown. "Apparently they were popular gifts this year. I had to pay extra just to get one delivered by tomorrow; a lot of people are going to have to wait until after the New Year. But the salesman was nice enough to give me one of the window ads, so I could show it to you."

"How much did you spend?" Brendon sounds scandalized, but Dallon clucks his tongue as he ties his sash.

"That's rude, Brendon." If he admitted that he spent almost a clean thousand, Brendon would probably have kittens. "Come on, let's go downstairs."

Brendon glances at the clock on top of the chiffonier, the face cracked after his fit the other night, but the mechanics inside still working. “It’s past noon already. Don’t we have to be at your mother’s at three?”

“Yes, but she can wait. The party isn’t until six. Come on!” Dallon reaches for Brendon’s hand, pulls him out of the bed. “I can’t wait for you to see.”

They head down the creaky staircase to the drawing room, where the tree stands, fixed up pretty after the other night. There are a few smaller packages underneath, presents from Weston and Rose, and a rolled piece of paper tied with a ribbon. Dallon heads for the tree, but Brendon grabs his arm, grinning.

"Me first," he says, leading him towards the dining room.

In the dining room are three boxes. One is larger than the others, waiting on the floor, while the smaller two are propped up on the table. Brendon rushes forward, picks up the flat box and flips it over. "It's a bookcase," he says excitedly. "A big one. For your room. And those," he nods towards the smaller boxes, "are full of books to put in it. I bought a bunch of different kinds, because I know you just like good stories. You should be set for at least a few months," he laughs. "When's your birthday? Early May, right? Maybe I'll just buy you more then.”

Dallon smiles, opens one of the boxes on the table. It's packed with Shakespeare plays, poems from Poe and Eliot, novels by Hawthorne and Twain. "Jiminy Cricket," he murmurs, picking up a copy of _Silas Marner_. "This is fantastic. Thank you." He pulls Brendon into a hug teases him: "Can you recommend all these?"

"Actually, I can," Brendon says with a grin, putting both hands on Dallon's waist. "In fact, I might borrow some of them, to refresh my memory. It's been a while."

"I've always wondered how you became a reader," Dallon comments. "I can't imagine you were at the bookstore long enough to read this much."

Brendon blushes and shrugs. "Well. My mother taught me how, and my sisters provided me with short stories and fairy tales, but I didn't really start reading until I got my bed at the brothel.”

Dallon raises his eyebrows, sets the book aside. “Really? I thought you were busy all the time.”

“No, no, kitten,” Brendon laughs. “I was very popular, but mostly at night. You don’t see a lot of cats who are bold enough to enter a brothel during the day, especially to fuck a young boy. So the women there gave me books to read to pass the time, and when I read all those, I started buying my own.” He pauses, still smiling slightly. “It was a nice escape.”

Dallon puts a hand on Brendon’s face, just to touch him. Half the time, he forgets about Brendon’s past, and it always saddens him a little when he remembers. Brendon meets his eyes, leans into his touch, and everything about him feels so natural sometimes that Dallon wants to cry.

“Come on, doll,” he says, pulling back suddenly, adjusting his dressing gown. “I want to show you what I bought you.”

He leads Brendon back to the Christmas tree, hands him the roll of paper. Brendon gives him a skeptical look, but unties the ribbon and lets the paper fall open.

“Jesus Christ.”

Dallon beams. “Do you like it?”

“You bought me my own _piano_? A _Steinway_?” Brendon drops the paper, gapes at Dallon. “Do we even have room for it?”

“Of course! It’s an upright, and once the Christmas tree is gone, we can put it in that corner. You’ll love it when you see it, it’s mahogany, most beautiful thing you ever saw,” and Dallon’s grinning like he used to do on Christmas mornings, when he was a little boy opening up trainsets and chocolates, pulling sweet oranges from his stocking. And Brendon smiles, almost affectionate.

“I doubt that,” he says, taking a seat on the rug in front of the tree. “But thank you. I’m sure it is beautiful, and I can’t wait to play it.”

“Don’t you like it?” Dallon asks, concerned, as he sits next to Brendon, hands him the box from Weston. “I felt bad, because I had a piano in Chicago, but we don’t have one here, so you don’t get to practice-”

“I love it, kitten,” Brendon answers, still smiling that strange smile. “Really. Thank you.”

Weston’s gift to Brendon is a set of red silk pajamas, with an oriental pattern in gold. Brendon thinks Dallon told Weston about his fantasies; Dallon insists he didn’t, but he’s still ecstatic that they’ll finally come true.

 

\------

 

The house in Sands Point is crawling with children. Brendon is startled to see a group of kids rolling down the hill in front of the house, cheering and laughing. “Who are they?”

“Orphans, dollface,” Dallon answers casually, grinning as they walk to the front door. “Papa believes in giving back. The people are good enough to buy what you’re selling? Then you should be good to the people. Every Christmas, he invites an orphanage to the house for dinner and gifts. Don’t worry, it’s fun.”

Brendon doesn’t look so sure, but Ellen arrives to greet them before he can speak again. Dallon asks where his father is, then excuses himself to find him. He feels a little guilty, leaving Brendon alone with Ellen, but however much she refuses to believe their relationship will last, she’s been generally kind to him. Or at least polite. That much is just her Southern upbringing.

Henry’s office is in the back of the house, where it’s quiet and empty. Dallon knocks before entering, closing the door behind him. “Merry Christmas, Papa,” he says, “do you need help?”

Henry waves him away before tightening his large belt around a well-packed pillow, then shrugs the red jacket over his shoulders. “I’ve been doing this since Weston was in short pants. I might pass it over to you in a few years, but not yet.”

Dallon grins. “No one could be Saint Nicolas like you, Papa.”

Henry smiles back, takes a seat behind his desk. “I don’t know. At least you have blue eyes. And a good back,” he chuckles. “So what can I do for you?”

Dallon takes the seat on the other side of the desk. “I wanted to talk to you about the company.”

“What about it?”

“Is Weston back in line to run it?” Dallon leans over, resting his elbows on the mahogany. “I mean, he’s obviously doing much better.”

Henry raises an eyebrow. “I don’t remember ever telling you he wasn’t going to take over.”

“I overheard you and Mama discussing it the last time I was home.” Dallon swallows and fiddles with his cufflink. “It was part of the reason I never visited.”

“I see.” Henry’s bearded face is blank as he leans back in his chair, rests his hands on the pillow hidden under his jacket. “Well, Weston is doing better, so having him take over someday is back on the table. If he wants it. Why?”

Dallon doesn’t look up, still messing with his cuff, then the hem of his jacket. “I was thinking of starting my own business.” When an eyebrow raise is the only response, Dallon sighs. “I haven’t decided what kind yet. Maybe sell books. Or sheet music. Or phonographs and discs for them. I’m still thinking about it. But if Weekes Steel & Iron is looming over my head, I can’t do that.”

“Why not just have the company be your business?”

"I want something small. Almost a hobby. Something...” He blushes, adjusts the collar of his jacket. “Something that maybe Brendon could help me with. Be a partner in.”

Henry strokes his beard, smiling slightly. “Have you talked to Brendon about this?”

“No. No, I was hoping I could start it on my own, have something to do during the day, and if it does well, eventually Brendon could... could quit the jazz scene and help.”

“I see,” Henry says again. “Well, I’m impressed, I suppose. That you’d turn out so ambitious.”

“Really? Because I was kind of surprised,” Dallon says with a laugh. “I know I didn’t do well at university, but I picked up some things, and I’m sure the rest I could get your help with.”

“When you decide what you want to pursue, tell me. I’d be glad to help.” Henry starts to get up again, and Dallon hurries around the desk to help him. “Can I just ask one question?”

“What’s that?”

“Is this because of Brendon?”

Dallon blushes again, takes a few steps back, resumes playing with his cufflink. “What do you mean, exactly.”

“You deciding to...” Henry takes a moment to think of the right word, “to mature.”

“Mature?” Dallon lifts his head, surprised. “Really?”

Henry chuckles, opens a desk drawer, pulls out his old, handmade cap and a white, woolly beard to cover his natural one. “Six years ago, you weren’t mature enough to come in here and talk to me about the company, after overhearing what I said. Hell, six months ago, your mother couldn’t even get you to write home. But here you are today, in my office, announcing your decision to start a business of your own. I’m just wondering if it has anything to do with Brendon.”

It has everything to do with Brendon. It has to do with Brendon cracking his superficial veneer by seeing straight through it, then slowly but surely coaxing Dallon out and away from that shell. He can’t say it to his father, but it’s the reason Dallon is so in love with Brendon: Brendon is the one who saw him for who he really was, and liked that man more than the rich, gin-loving sheik his friends believed him to be. That he believed himself to be.

And all he can do is smile. Nod. “Yeah, Papa. It’s Brendon.”

“Then let me tell you this,” Henry says, adjusting the fake beard to fit under his nose. “The devil with what your mother says. If Brendon is the reason you are the man you are right now, then God bless him, and God bless you both. I’m proud of you.”

Dallon blushes, smiling shyly. “Jiminy Cricket, Papa.”

Henry grins under his beard and takes a step back, holds his arms out. “How do I look?”

Dallon sighs, “Like a saint.”

 

\------

 

Once the kids are gone, when Brendon and Dallon are getting ready to leave, Dallon makes sure to thank Weston for the silk pajamas.

“I thought I bought those for Brendon,” Weston says, looking confused.

“See?” Dallon grins cheekily when Brendon crosses his arms over his chest. “I told you I didn’t tell him.”

“Tell me what?” Weston asks.

“Never mind,” Brendon says, blushing dark red. “Thank you, but never mind.”

 

\------

 

A few days later, Dallon is at home, alone, reading _The Virginian_ to keep himself entertained while Brendon is at rehearsal. It’s an engaging story that makes Dallon think of the west, of Brendon’s birthplace. He doesn’t even notice the knock at the front door until the butler comes to fetch him.

“There’s a young lady at the door, sir,” he says, and Dallon frowns.

“What does she want?”

“She asked for you by name. A young blonde woman, sir.”

His first thought is Elizabeth, though he’s not sure how she would have discovered his address. “Thank you,” he mumbles as his marks his page and heads for the door.

It’s not Elizabeth. This woman is closer to his own age, and there’s color in her skin, a roughness to her hands that betrays a life of work, something neither Dallon nor Elizabeth has ever been exposed to. “Can I help you?” he asks, and she clutches her green jacket tight around her neck.

“My name is Kyla Arrington,” she says with a small smile that strikes something warm and familiar in Dallon’s heart. “I’m responding to your ad?”

“What ad?”

Her smile fades, and a gloved hand brushes hair behind her ear before reaching into her pocket, handing him yesterday’s newspaper and _oh_.

Dallon swallows. Steps back from the door. “I’m sorry. I’m Dallon, come in, please, Miss Arrington.”

“It’s Mrs, but Kyla’s all right too,” she says as she comes inside, allows Dallon to take her coat. “This is some swanky place! I was wondering why anyone would spend a yard on my family, but I guess you’ve got it to spare!” She laughs, obviously confused and uncomfortable, trying to make conversation. Dallon clears his throat.

“Your family?” he says in a shaky voice. “Then, you’re a Urie?”

“Yes, sir, all my life,” she grins. Dallon runs a hand through his hair, gestures towards the drawing room, invites her to sit on the sofa.

“Then do you mind if I ask for a little more information? Just to confirm you are who you say you are,” he clarifies as he takes the seat across from her.

Kyla fidgets, keeps her hands in her lap. “You mean, about my parents? Grace and Boyd?”

Oh God. Dallon chews on his lower lip. “Where you grew up. Any siblings. I just need to know if you’re really a Urie or if you’re just after the money.”

She looks offended for a second, then seems to accept the idea with a shrug. “I was born on a farm in Nevada, third child of what would eventually be five: Kara, Matthew, me, Mason and Brendon.”

This can’t be happening.

“Matthew and Mason were both in the Great War, but neither came home,” she continues, fiddling with her hair. “Brendon disappeared several years ago. Kara married a traveling salesman, who moved all of us to his mother’s orchard in New Jersey. I married a ferry conductor, so he and I are in the city a lot, and he’s the one who noticed your ad, and showed it to me.” She’s smiling now, though hesitantly. “It was a surprise, to see my family’s name in a New York paper. I almost didn’t answer.”

There’s a part of Dallon that wishes she hadn’t. He sighs, tries to sit up straight, chewing on his lower lip. “Well. Well, all right then.”

“That’s what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He reaches for his cigarette case, mutters “Jiminy Cricket,” under his breath as he places one in his mouth and lights the tip. Kyla watches him expectantly, patiently, for a long moment. Finally, she has to ask:

“What’s this all about? I don’t really need the money, I suppose, I was just curious as to why some stranger in New York might be looking for us.”

Dallon exhales smoke, glances at the grandfather clock against the back wall. “You’ll find out in about twenty minutes,” he answers. “Would you like some tea? Or maybe some jumbles, my cook just made some this morning?”

Kyla looks nervous, maybe regretting coming without her husband to chaperon, but she nods slowly. “Tea sounds lovely, Mr. Weekes.”

“You can call me Dallon,” he says with a shrug as he stands, takes a drag from his cigarette. “I’ll be right back.”

He sits in his chair and smokes, tries to force small talk with her, all the while dreading the next stage of events. When he hears the front door open, he scrambles to his feet, barely manages to excuse himself before he’s in the foyer, grabbing Brendon and pulling him into a tight embrace, breathing him in.

“Dallon,” Brendon laughs, his voice muffled by Dallon’s shirt, “what are you doing?”

“Promise me,” Dallon mumbles into Brendon’s skin, clutching at his vest. “Promise me you won’t leave me. Ever.”

“Christ, Dallon, what’s this all about?” Brendon starts to move away, only to be pulled back in, even tighter, and Dallon presses his nose into Brendon’s hair.

“Please,” he whispers, “just promise me that.”

Brendon sighs, his breath warm against Dallon’s throat as his hands settle on his back. “Okay,” he says softly, “I promise I won’t leave you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dallon mewls, finally pulling away, and Brendon looks confused despite the affectionate smile on his lips.

“Now tell me what this is about,” he insists. Dallon takes a deep breath and gestures for Brendon to follow him into the drawing room, where Kyla is still sitting on the sofa. She glances up as they enter, and Brendon’s whole body stiffens when he sees her. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, mostly to himself, as Kyla stands, her eyes wide.

“Jeepers,” she says, a hand over her mouth. “You look like...”

“Kyla?” Brendon says, taking a step forward. She makes a soft noise as her eyes start to shine. “Kyla, it is me. It’s Brendon.”

For a moment, Dallon’s afraid she’ll faint. She swoons, and Brendon starts to rush forward, but she manages to steady herself with her hand on the arm of the sofa. “Oh my goodness,” she murmurs, her voice heavy, on the verge of breaking. “We thought you were dead.”

Brendon looks at the floor, then lifts his eyes to look at her once again. They have the same eyes, Dallon notices, that wrinkle the same way when they smile. He leans against the wall as they finally embrace, and Kyla starts to weep. Now it’s her tiny hands clutching Brendon’s vest, keeping him close, and he’s holding her like he never wants to let go.

As much as Dallon is happy that Brendon could finally be reunited with his family after all these years, an overwhelming part of him is absolutely petrified. He was supposed to be the only person in Brendon’s life, the only one he needed. He’s not used to sharing, and isn’t sure if he ever will be. He’s certainly not excited at the prospect that Brendon could decide he doesn’t need him after all, if he has Kyla and Kara to be there for him. And as far as they’ve come in knowing each other, trusting each other, loving each other, especially in the short month they’ve spent in New York, it’s hard to accept this new hurdle to maneuver around.

But Brendon is happy, his face glowing when Kyla pulls away, starts touching his hair, telling him how handsome he is. So Dallon smiles. That, at least, he can accept.

 

\------

 

Kyla stays until nightfall, when her husband arrives at the front door, looking hassled and harried until she delightedly introduces him to her long-lost brother. Dallon had tried to stay out of the way as much as possible, if not to give them privacy and a decent chance to catch up, then to protect himself from his own anxieties.

Brendon keeps following her through the foyer, to hug her goodbye again, and again, and again. Once Kyla and her husband finally leave, Brendon leans against the front door, a gigantic, toothy smile on his face as Dallon emerges from the kitchen.

“Well?” Dallon prompts. Brendon exhales in a rush.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, putting a hand over his face. “I can’t even... speak. The emotions...”

“You seem pretty happy,” Dallon says with a small smile.

“I’m going to see my mother,” Brendon whispers. “Kyla said she’d try to bring her and Kara out after the New Year. Jesus Christ, it’s been eight years, they might not even recognize me. Kyla almost didn’t.”

Dallon leans against the wall, doesn’t look at him. “Mothers know. It’ll be great. I can set them up in the guest rooms-”

“No,” Brendon says suddenly, stepping closer to Dallon, putting a hand on his arm. “My family isn’t like your family. We’re farmers. Rural people, even now. They can’t know about you.”

Honestly, Dallon was expecting that much. “What did you tell her, then? Since my name was on the ad.”

“I’m apprenticing with your father. It was his idea to have me live here with you, since you’re closer to my age. We ended up becoming close friends, and you wanted to help.”

“Apprenticing? They can’t even know you’re a musician?” Dallon thinks of the piano that now sits in the drawing room, that Brendon had fallen in love with as soon as it came through the door, has been playing in every spare moment. And it hurts, that look on Brendon’s face right now, shame and uncertainty.

“They wouldn’t approve of the jazz scene,” Brendon says in a quiet voice. “I have to go get dressed for work.”

He disappears up the staircase, and Dallon heads for the drawing room, takes a seat at the piano. There’s a heavy feeling in his gut, and he plays a few random chords in an attempt to distract himself. Brendon had promised he wouldn’t leave, and Dallon believes him, but something about this just doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s the thought that they have to outright lie to Brendon’s family; while Dallon had never planned to tell his family about the true nature of their relationship, he never planned to lie to them about it either. And to have to hide Brendon’s job as well? The performance career he worked so hard to get, deserves so much, despite all of Dallon’s concerns, and he can’t tell his family about it.

“Are you after a music career too?” comes Brendon’s voice, and Dallon jumps, starts to turn around, but Brendon’s arms slide around his shoulders before he can.

“How did I not hear you coming down that damn staircase?”

Brendon laughs, kisses Dallon’s ear. “You were too far in your own head, kitten. I just wanted to make sure you heard me say good night.”

Dallon nods, leans back against Brendon’s chest, closes his eyes. “I’m glad we found your sister,” he mumbles, “if it makes you happy.”

“It does,” Brendon sighs, squeezing gently. “But I know you’re worrying, and you should stop. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dallon almost says it. He can taste the words on the tip of his tongue, and here, with Brendon’s voice in his ear, surrounded by Brendon’s warmth, he’s never felt as ready to admit his feelings as he does in this moment. But he stops himself, right at the eleventh hour: Brendon has another place to run to now, if love is too overwhelming.

He knows that this is just him not trusting Brendon. It doesn’t make the words any easier to say, the fear any easier to face.

“Wake me when you get home,” is what he says instead, opening his eyes, tilting his head to see Brendon’s face. “Okay?”

“All right,” Brendon answers, gently kissing Dallon’s lips. Their eyes meet when he pulls back, and for a second, it seems like Brendon is going to say something else, but he only sighs, stands up straight.

“Good night, kitten,” is all he says. Dallon turns back to the piano. Plays a G minor chord.

“Good night, doll.”


	13. Stutter

“Brendon, we just spent a ton of money at Macy’s, do we really need this?”

“Yes,” Brendon insists, frowning as he opens the glass doors at Brooks Brothers, “and since when are you concerned about spending money?”

Dallon rolls his eyes and follows him inside. “Never mind. I guess I just don’t understand why your family coming for a visit requires new clothes.”

“Because they think I’m learning the ins and outs of business, so I need to look like a businessman. Most of my clothes are old and worn anyway.”

“Like that sack you wear to bed,” Dallon mutters under his breath; Brendon hears and turns to glare at him. “What? Weston bought you those nice pajamas, and you hardly wear them.”

It’s Brendon’s turn to roll his eyes as a salesman approaches them, asks how he can help them today. Brendon has decided that he wants to look respectable, in greys and blues and blacks, unlike Dallon’s rather colorful collection of vests and trousers. Dallon distracts himself by heading for the wall of ready-to-wear suits, observing the mannequins. The waists on jackets are becoming lower, trouser hems wider, and bowties are falling out of fashion. Dallon, who used to pride himself on his knowledge of the latest trends, hasn’t even noticed these changes occurring. He’s been too distracted by Brendon, who until today didn’t particularly care about clothing.

Dallon runs his hands over a pair of argyle-patterned socks, one of several pairs in multiple colors, and sighs. Maybe he needs to refresh his closet as well, since he’s here.

Brendon decides on four separate suits, a few extra shirts and socks, and a new pair of black oxford shoes. These, and the new jacket Dallon picked for himself, will be delivered to the townhouse tomorrow, and Brendon breathes a sigh of relief as they step back into the cold.

“You shouldn’t be so worried about impressing your family,” Dallon comments, buttoning his coat. “They’ll be more focused on the fact that you’re alive than how shiny your shoes are, or whether or not you have an electric lamp in your room.”

“I know,” Brendon answers in a quiet voice, “but they’re staying for a while, and eventually the surprise will wear off. And I have to make a good impression. They can’t know about my past, about the jazz, about you.” He sighs again, turns to look at Dallon. “I hope you know I feel really guilty about that. Because your family knows...”

“No, I know, it’s jake,” Dallon says. "My family is a bit... abnormal in that sense, and I know it. That doesn't bother me."

"Then what is bothering you?" Brendon asks as they climb the front steps of the townhouse, as Dallon pulls out the key. "I know you. Something's on your mind."

Dallon laughs, short and surprised. "Nothing's bothering me, Brendon."

"Says you. Don’t lie. I thought we were past that."

Dallon closes the door behind them, makes a face as he pulls his coat off. "I just... I guess I'm still afraid of you leaving," he admits, almost cautious. "Especially with your family just in New Jersey. You could be there in hours by train. What's keeping you here?"

"You, you sap," Brendon frowns, looking insulted. "You give me all that shit about trusting you, and you still won't trust me not to leave?"

Dallon gives him a guilty look; he's been telling himself the same thing for a week now. "I know. I'm sorry. I guess I just don't understand why you stay. There are so many places you could be, doing great things, especially with the money you make now. I can't be better than that."

Brendon gives him a confused look as he closes the coat closet door, then clears his throat. Glances away. "You know, I've been thinking. About getting into songwriting."

Dallon raises his eyebrows. "Really? Like... sheet music and Tin Pan Alley?"

"Yeah." Brendon shrugs casually. "The Firefly never really gave me the chance to showcase that, and neither does Club Fronton. I think I’d like to look into it. See where it gets me.”

“You mean... would you be willing to give up performing?”

“Maybe.” Brendon runs a hand through his hair. “If it pays well and I enjoy it. Maybe.”

Dallon stares at him for a moment before a smile starts to bloom on his face. “Really?”

“Maybe,” Brendon repeats, though he’s smiling as well. “We’ll see what happens.”

“I’ve been looking into something too,” Dallon says, reaching for Brendon’s hand.

“What’s that?”

“Opening my own bookstore.”

Brendon blinks at him, then laughs, “Jesus Christ. I’ve created a monster.” But he squeezes Dallon’s hand, steps closer to him. “I think I like that idea, though. You need something to do during the day.” He reaches for Dallon’s other hand, and in the same moment, Dallon leans in for a kiss, thinks how much he’ll miss being able to be so openly affectionate in his own home, how much he loves Brendon. He hums slightly, almost speaks the words against Brendon’s lips, but changes his mind; even if he feels more confident about Brendon’s promise to stay, he can’t help feeling that a confession of such magnitude should be saved for a better time.

After Brendon’s family goes home, he decides. He’ll share the depth of his feelings then, and hope that mere words will be enough.

  
\------

 

Dallon is exhausted, but Brendon can’t keep his hands to himself.

“Bren,” Dallon mumbles, voice dampened by the pillow as he lays on his stomach, “Bren, no more, I’m going to sleep.”

Brendon runs his mouth over the line of Dallon’s shoulder, his hands sliding down Dallon’s back, still slick with sweat. “Kitten, please? Just one more time.”

They’ve already fucked three times, and Dallon hadn’t even known he could go more than once a night; it simply never occurred to him to try. His eyes won’t stay open, but he hums anyway when Brendon’s lips close around his earlobe. “Dollface,” he sighs, “I don’t think I can even move.”

“Then just let me fuck you this time,” Brendon whispers, his fingernails tracing down Dallon’s arm. “I’ll do all the work. Just please.”

Brendon’s family is arriving in the morning. Later this morning, Dallon realizes, when he opens one eye to see the clock on the chiffonier reading just past two-thirty. They’re staying for an entire fortnight. Two weeks of sleeping alone, stolen kisses, eye contact having to take the place of being skin-to-skin. Dallon isn’t opposed to taking as much of Brendon as he possibly can tonight... he’s just exhausted. “How are you hard already,” he mutters, closing his eye again. “It hasn’t even been ten minutes.”

Brendon pleads, “Please, kitten? One more time, just let me have you, and it’ll be enough.”

“Fine,” Dallon responds, yawning, “but I might just fall asleep on you.”

“No, you won’t,” Brendon giggles. “I know you.” And Dallon’s eyes fly open when Brendon spreads him open, presses his tongue to Dallon’s entrance, wet and warm, and Dallon makes a strangled noise, grips the blanket. Brendon laughs again. “See?”

“You should warn a guy,” Dallon breathes, then lets out another soft noise when Brendon kisses his hole again, flutters his tongue, starts to push it inside. “Jiminy Cricket,” he gasps, honestly surprised that his cock is genuinely trying to get hard, though he’s not sure if he could handle coming again without completely falling apart. Brendon’s hands are squeezing him roughly, keeping him open, and Brendon starts making little noises of his own, sending sparks up Dallon’s spine. He’s not sure if he can give this up for an entire two weeks, not when they’re just getting back into being intimate on a regular basis.

Brendon’s mouth disappears, but is quickly replaced with a wet fingertip, pressing in far too slowly. Dallon presses his forehead into his pillow, pushes his hips back, demanding more, and Brendon laughs. “You’re always so much more responsive this way,” he teases, but concedes to giving Dallon two fingers instead, which earns a heady moan. “I knew you couldn’t sleep through it.”

“I’ll pass out right after this, I'm sure." Dallon gasps when Brendon's mouth appears next to his fingers, that tantalizing tongue teasing so spectacularly. "Jiminy _Cricket_ , Brendon."

"One of these days, I'll get you to blaspheme properly," Brendon murmurs, his breath hot, and Dallon moans, attempts to muffle himself in the pillow. Brendon's right: he is so helplessly, ridiculously responsive when Brendon has him spread open, has that tongue and those fingers probing his hole, and he can’t even bring himself to feel ashamed by it. Not just because it feels so good, but because it’s _Brendon_. That’s reason enough.

“Shit,” Dallon breathes, as Brendon sits back, starts to gently thrust three fingers into him, and Dallon’s hips sway with the movement, his eyes closing as he pants, whimpers, whines. “Shit, Brendon.”

“Hush,” Brendon chides, leaning over to bite down on Dallon’s shoulderblade, sucking softly. Dallon groans again, always excited by the presence of Brendon’s teeth on his skin. “Are you hard yet?”

Yes. A resounding yes, though Dallon is still honestly stunned that he could manage to get hard a fourth time. His skin feels lit right now, pulsating sparks flushing his skin, igniting his bloodstream; he can’t even muster up the energy to sit up on his elbows, but all his attention is focused on his cock, and on Brendon’s fingers. Dallon pushes his hips back again. Takes a deep breath. Nods. Brendon laughs in a little huff and removes his fingers, moving to lean back against the headboard. Dallon whines, “Aren’t you going to fuck me?” and Brendon laughs again, running a hand through Dallon’s damp hair.

“Sure, kitten. If you want. But I want you to do something for me first.”

“Anything,” Dallon sighs, allowing Brendon to help him lift his head, shift so that he’s leaning against Brendon’s stomach, and a rough shudder runs through him as Brendon starts to stroke his own prick, his other hand still in Dallon’s hair. “Jiminy Cricket, Brendon.”

“Will you put your mouth on it for me?” And it’s a stupid question, because Dallon loves this. He’s still not very good at it, can’t take Brendon in too far, but Brendon still seems to mainly enjoy watching him try so hard to do a good job anyway. Dallon shifts again, until he’s close enough to fit his mouth over the head of Brendon’s cock, sucking sleepily, wetly. Brendon moans under his breath, his hand gripping Dallon’s hair, almost pushing, so Dallon obliges and takes in a little more, humming, lifting his hand to press against the base of Brendon’s prick, to fondle his balls, and Brendon moans again.

Dallon makes the effort to sit up a little more, change the angle of his attack. He can take Brendon a little deeper this way, bobbing his head up and down, groaning when Brendon does. He really loves this taste, could do this for hours, even as sleepy as he is. He lets Brendon slide from his mouth, then wraps his lips around the base, edging upwards, and thinks this would be the best kind of way to kill a hot summer afternoon. Maybe by summer he’ll be able to take Brendon’s cock all the way in, like Brendon can do to him. He grips Brendon’s hip, whines when Brendon tugs on his hair, lifts his head up, pulls him in for a kiss.

“You’re so good,” Brendon mumbles against his lips, and Dallon can’t help smiling, pleased. “Christ, Dallon, you’re just... are you still sleepy?” Dallon nods slowly, eyes half-lidded, and Brendon laughs, cards his fingers through Dallon’s hair. “Do you still want me to fuck you?” And Dallon nods again, groaning from the back of his throat as he leans in for a lazy kiss. Brendon’s hand flounders at the bedside table, reaching for the hair oil without having to break away, and Dallon make a soft noise when a slick finger forces its way inside him. “Ready?”

Dallon nods again, starts to slide away, to lay on his back, but Brendon grabs his shoulder, shaking his head. Dallon blinks at him. “What are you doing?”

“I want you in my lap.”

“You said you’d do all the work!” Dallon whines, pouting his lower lip, and Brendon chuckles, leans in for another kiss, but Dallon turns his head away. “I mean it, Brendon, I’ve seen you do that to me, and I hardly had to do anything then.”

“Please, kitten?” And now Brendon’s lower lip is puffed out, eyes round, eyebrows raised. “Please, this is the last time we get to be close to one another for two whole weeks. Let’s make it fun.”

“I’m exhausted, Bren-” but he gasps when a pair of fingers enters him roughly, and he leans his forehead against Brendon’s, mouth ajar. “Shit, Brendon.”

“Please?” Brendon murmurs, biting at Dallon’s neck, and that’s not fair. “You won’t do it all by yourself, I’ll help, okay?”

“Okay,” Dallon mumbles, and when Brendon removes his hand, he moves to straddle Brendon’s lap, and Brendon’s entire face is flushed with excitement as he grips his cock in one hand, Dallon’s hip in the other, attempting to guide him. Dallon’s eyes fly open as the head of Brendon’s prick breaches his entrance, and Brendon laughs when Dallon all but collapses forward, continues to take him in.

“Remember our first time?” Brendon whispers once Dallon’s taken him all the way inside.

“Yeah,” Dallon gasps as Brendon shifts his hips. “Yeah, how could I forget?”

“You were so cute,” Brendon says, running a hand down Dallon’s thigh, then moves back to grip his waist, hold him in place as he shifts his hips again. “You’re always cute, but you just wanted it so bad. Wanted me. Wanted to please me.”

This is sweet, really, but there’s not nearly enough friction happening, so Dallon leans his weight against Brendon’s shoulders, starts to raise and lower his own hips and yes, that’s so much better, even Brendon starts to moan again. Dallon works himself into a rhythm, purposely avoids that sweet spot because he honestly believes he couldn’t handle such stimulation right now. Even Brendon starting to slowly stroke his cock feels like a little too much. “I’m a sucker for you, and you know it,” Dallon says, pressing his hand to the back of Brendon’s neck. “You knew it that first time, too.”

“That was just because I was your first-”

“No, it wasn’t.” Dallon frowns, but doesn’t stop moving his hips, even pulls Brendon into a wet, messy kiss. He’s utterly fatigued, but that’s not going to keep him from seeking that pleasure, nor is it going to distract him from Brendon being wrong. “I was carrying a torch for you,” he moans softly. “When we met, you didn’t like me. No one-” he cuts himself off with a rough noise, a flash of bliss shooting through him, numbing his fingertips, and he takes a deep breath. “No one ever spoke to me like you did. I... I liked your honesty. I liked that you didn’t hide your feelings, even if they were bad. I’d never met anyone like you before, and I just...”

Brendon leans in for a kiss, moaning roughly, and Dallon feels suddenly overwhelmed, pulls Brendon as close as possible, and Brendon returns the gesture, moves his hips with Dallon’s as best he can. When Dallon starts to pull out of the kiss, Brendon bites at his lip, his chin, and Dallon groans, slams his hips down, and Brendon comes, digs his fingernails into Dallon’s back, Dallon’s name falling from his lips.

And he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down. Brendon lifts Dallon off him, all but throws him back onto the bed, and takes Dallon’s cock into his mouth, thrusts three fingers back into his wet hole, and Dallon’s control breaks. His hands clutch at Brendon’s hair as he practically yells, his head thrown back, hips jolting as Brendon swallows him down, pointedly presses his fingers to that impossibly perfect place inside him, and within seconds Dallon is coming as well, crying out, thoughtlessly pulling on Brendon’s hair.

It all gets cloudy after that, as he tries to catch his breath. Brendon crawls up for a kiss that Dallon, mostly asleep, hardly returns. Brendon pats his cheek, pinches his hip, begs him not to fall asleep just yet.

“I want to tell you something. You have to hear this,” Brendon pleads softly, but Dallon’s head lolls to the side, resting comfortably against the pillow, and he’s dead to the world before Brendon can say another word.

 

\------

 

“Brendon. Stop panicking.”

“I’m not panicking,” Brendon insists, and this is a very familiar scene, but Dallon just grabs Brendon’s hands, pulls them away from his tie.

“Yes, you are. Calm down,” Dallon says firmly, before he leans in for a soft kiss. “It’ll be wonderful. None of them will care about what you’re wearing. Though,” Dallon pauses, takes a step back to observe him, his gray three-piece suit with the navy shirt and white tie, hair slicked back and shoes polished to a perfect shine, “you do look very handsome.”

“Dallon,” Brendon says in a warning tone, though now, at least, there is a smile on his face. “You don’t understand-”

“Oh, but I do. Do you not remember mere weeks ago, making our way from Chicago, to see my family that I hadn’t seen since the end of the war? It’s not exactly the same, but dollface, don’t tell me I don’t understand.”

Brendon’s smile grows. “Fair enough. But don’t call me ‘dollface’ around my family.”

“I know that. They haven’t arrived yet.” And as if on cue, a knock sounds at the door. It’s just past ten-thirty, and Brendon freezes, color fading from his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and Dallon takes this moment to put both hands on Brendon’s face, kiss him one more time.

“I’m here,” he whispers, then goes to answer the door. Kyla is smiling on the other side, practically buzzing, with two other woman standing behind her. Where the family resemblance with Kyla stops at their eyes, the other two women are definitely relatives of Brendon’s, with their dark hair and full lips, small shoulders and high foreheads. He greets Kyla first, kisses her cheek, ushers all of them inside with a warm smile.

“This is my mother, Grace,” Kyla says, gesturing to the older of the two new women, her face lined with a lifetime of work, “and my sister, Kara.”

Dallon introduces himself, shakes both their hands, welcomes them to his home. Kara looks distrustful of him, as if she’s still unsure why this strange young man would offer to house three women he doesn’t know. So he smiles, offers her his arm, trying to charm her. “Shall I show you the rest of the house?”

The first place he takes them is the drawing room. Kyla can’t contain herself anymore, clapping her hands, then placing them over her mouth when she sees Brendon seated at the bay window. Brendon glances up, eyes wide, and suddenly Kara grips Dallon’s arm, and Grace’s mouth falls open.

Silence hits heavy and solid. Brendon stays seated, looks terrified, and Kyla is only watching her family, waiting for someone else to make the first move. So Dallon clears his throat, carefully eases away from Kara. “Ladies,” he says smoothly, “this is my housemate, Brendon.”

Grace shakes her head, puts a hand on the door frame to steady herself. “It can’t be,” she says softly, and Brendon stands, straightens his jacket, worries his lower lip.

Kyla can’t take it anymore and bounds forward to hug Brendon, bouncing and laughing. “He put out an ad to find us!” she says excitedly, pinching his cheek, and Brendon blushes dark red. Kara takes a deep breath.

“You’re really Brendon?” she asks, sounding frightened. “ _Our_ Brendon?”

Brendon swallows and runs a hand through his slick hair. “Yes, Kara. It’s me.”

Grace bursts into tears and rushes forward, pulls Brendon into her arms and sobs against his shoulder. Kara almost falls onto the sofa, a hand over her mouth as if she hasn’t quite processed what’s happening. Kyla meets Dallon’s eyes and claps her hands again, and Dallon makes his exit, retreating to the kitchen, to give the Uries the privacy they need to reconnect with each other.

  
\------  


By dinner, everyone has calmed down some, though when Dallon goes to join them, sitting at the head of the table, he notices that for every smile is a pair of tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Brendon included.

It’s strange to have so many people in the townhouse, strange not to be seated next to Brendon, and Dallon remains quiet through most of the meal, watching Brendon catch up with his family. Grace periodically runs a hand through Brendon’s hair and down his face, makes a comment about how grown-up he is, and how handsome. Dallon feels inclined to agree, but the only way he can voice is it to praise Grace for her beauty, suggest Brendon got his looks from her. Brendon is the only one who picks up on the subtext, raising an eyebrow in Dallon’s direction.

There’s a part of Dallon that feels uncomfortable being the man Brendon molded him into around these women, and he catches himself reverting to that charming, flirtatious sheik he was before. Grace and Kyla especially are taken with him, tickled by his compliments and stories; Kara still appears uncertain about Dallon’s intentions, though by the end of the meal she appears to be warming up to him, accepting that he is just the sort of person that likes to be the center of attention.

After dinner, Brendon shows the women to their rooms. Once the doors are shut, he disappears into his own, to change into his red tailcoat for work. Dallon sits on the sofa with a lamp on, reading as he waits.

Brendon descends the staircase slowly, trying in vain to avoid the creak in every step. “Shit,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one has woken up, come to see what the noise is. “This might be harder than I thought.”

Dallon shrugs, doesn’t rise from the sofa. “You’ll be fine. Just relax.”

“That’s easy for you to say. This could all go so wrong.”

“Brendon. Everything’s jake.”

“Right now!” Brendon runs his hands through his hair, and heads into the foyer. Dallon sighs and follows. “This is just the first night!”

“Brendon! Stop panicking!” It’s dark out, and everyone’s in bed, so Dallon reaches for Brendon’s shoulders, so tiny and fragile. “Look at what happened with my family. This doesn’t have to go badly!”

“Level with me,” Brendon say in a soft voice. “Do you really think everything will work out okay? I just... I don’t think I could handle losing my family again.”

Dallon thinks carefully before answering. “I live a pretty charmed life. And you’re part of that life now. So yes. I think this will work out fine.” He gives Brendon a hopeful smile. “Okay?”

Brendon exhales slowly, pulls on his overcoat, shakes his head. “Jesus Christ. I hope you’re right.” He reaches for the doorknob, ready to leave for the evening, but Dallon reaches for his wrist. “What is it, kitten?”

Dallon smiles slightly. “You’d wanted to tell me something last night, but I fell asleep, so I don’t know what it was.”

“Oh,” Brendon gasps, his cheeks flushing pink. He starts to pull away, but Dallon just twists their hands together, missing him already. “Oh, that, I guess... it’s all right, I just... um, I just felt it was... I mean,” and Brendon is not a man who stutters over his words. So Dallon leans in for a gentle, sweet kiss, pulls away with a sigh.

“Never mind. It’s all right.” He adjusts Brendon’s bowtie, gives him another smile. “Good night, dollface.”

Brendon grins back, almost helplessly. “Good night, kitten.” And he pulls his coat tight under his chin as he steps into the chilly air. Dallon closes the door behind him, leans against it, watches him through the tiny window until he disappears into the night.

“I love you, too,” Dallon murmurs, and goes to bed alone.


	14. The Sweetness

Grace is cooking breakfast again. Dallon sighs deeply when he walks into the kitchen, shakes his head, pulls his dress robe tighter. “Mrs. Urie, I’ve told you, you don’t have to do any cooking while you’re here.”

“Then what do I do? My dear, I have been working from sun up to sun down for as long as I can remember. I feel useless with all your servants running around! Just let me cook.”

Dallon sighs again, takes a seat at the table. He only has the butler and two maids, doesn’t need more than that in this small townhouse, and the first time he caught Grace cooking, she had actually sent one of the maids home. “This is your vacation. You can spend time with Brendon. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing.”

“He’s asleep,” she says smoothly, stirring some sort of fruit syrup on the gas stove. “Does he always sleep so late?”

“Um.” Brendon doesn’t get home until after two in the morning, most nights. “Well. Kara and Kyla aren’t awake yet either.”

“I know, but they're more accustomed to laziness, since they married. Brendon is a working man." She smiles, turns off the gas, takes the teapot to the table. "We're so proud of him."

Dallon smiles back. "You should be. He works hard."

"Maybe that's why he sleeps so late," she murmurs, wandering back to the stove, pouring the syrup over a large bowl of hot cereal. "I suppose that as long as your father doesn't mind such odd hours."

"Um. No." Dallon shrugs, unsure how to handle these lies.

"I'm curious, dear," Grace says as she brings the cereal and a few more bowls to the table. "Why would your father pick Brendon as his apprentice instead of you?"

They hadn't planned on these types of questions. Dallon coughs, and Grace waits patiently for his answer, as she serves him a bowl, then takes the seat across from him.  
"I'm... I wasn't interested in business. For a long time. So Papa chose Brendon." Honesty is always the best policy, if only because it’s easier to remember.

"How did they even meet?"

Shit.

Dallon worries his lower lip and glances over his shoulder, hoping Brendon or one of the girls will come to his rescue. "Uh... Papa likes to help people. He does a lot of work with orphans and the homeless. I think they met there."

"And just offered Brendon a job like that? Goodness." Grace shakes her head, sips a cup of tea. "I suppose I shouldn't complain. At least Brendon has a home. A friend,” she smiles at Dallon, who smiles back. "It's better than being out on the streets. Lord knows what he would have done."

Dallon stares into his cereal. He knows what was done, and he has a feeling that the truth has never even crossed Grace's mind. Hopefully, it never will.

“If I had known it would be Brendon we would see, I would have made Boyd come,” Grace comments, looking out the window. “He’ll be disappointed, but I suppose Brendon could visit soon.”

“My brother’s wedding is in two weeks, and Brendon’s been invited,” Dallon says, “but after that, yes. I’m sure the... I’m sure my father would understand.”

Grace turns to meet Dallon’s eyes, smiling gently. Her face is so eerily reminiscent of Brendon’s that Dallon has to turn away, unable to stop a blush from crawling up his neck. “I’m glad that Brendon has such a good friend. To help him find his family, then put them up for him. You’re a very good man, Dallon.” She sips her tea. “Not many would do so much for a friend. Especially in these times.”

Dallon blushes darker. Thanks her quietly. Excuses himself to head back to his room. Her kindness makes him feel guilty, after spewing such lies, and all he can hope for is that their visit will end quietly, and Brendon will be the one to visit them from now on; he is handling the lies much easier.

Nine days left. Dallon stands outside Brendon’s door and takes a deep breath.

This visit will go well because it has to. There is no option for failure. Brendon couldn’t handle it, and Dallon’s not sure what he would do if Brendon collapses under the weight of that sadness.

So he just won’t let it happen.

 

\-----

 

Dallon isn't sure which household is more stressful: the townhouse in Manhattan, trying to remember all the lies Brendon's family has been told, or his parents' home in Sands Point, where the wedding looms like a storm cloud, and the only person who isn't on the verge of insanity is, oddly enough, Rose. Unfortunately, Dallon is expected to visit Sands Point at least every other day, to help decorate the house or set-up the backyard or, at the very least, help Ellen pray it won't snow. The day after his conversation with Grace, Dallon ends up traveling to Sands Point, only to hide with Rose and Weston in Henry's office, the only place where Ellen won't bother them. Henry doesn't mind, so long as they stay quiet and don't bother him, and Rose feels guilty when her hands aren't busy, so she recruits the boys to help her make crepe paper roses.

"It's too bad that Brendon couldn't come today," Rose comments casually, tying a ribbon around a completed flower.

Weston rolls his eyes. "Sometimes I think I should be jealous of Brendon. You always talk about him."

"Applesauce!” Her cheeks are flushed, eyes lowered, and Dallon laughs. “Don’t be jealous, Weston! He's a nice boy, and for Dallon to have to come here without him is just too bad."

"And he has both legs," Weston teases, putting a hand on her knee. "I am but three-fourths of a man, compared to him."

"You're not funny," Rose says with a smile, lightly smacking his hand. "Dallon, where is Brendon? With his family again?"

"Yeah," Dallon answers, focusing on the paper flower in his hand, fluffing the bright pink paper. "He's taking them to the museum today. Then maybe shopping." He shakes his head and laughs. "They like that he makes a lot of money, even if they don't realize it's from the clubs. He doesn't get a lot of opportunity to spend that money either, so why not spend it on his sisters?"

"It's nice that he found his family," Rose sighs. "A bit of a miracle, really. Think about it." She tosses another flower aside, then pulls a larger, blue ribbon from her sleeve, uses that to tie her hair back and away from her freckled face. "If you had put those ads out in Chicago, his family never would've seen them. It's so random, and yet not at all."

"You're thinking too hard, dear," Weston grins. But Dallon thinks she's right, has been pondering the same thing on these past few lonely nights. The only reason those ads were seen was because he posted them in a New York paper, and of all things, one of Brendon's sisters had married a ferryman from New Jersey, who worked on the Hudson river, and read the New York paper on his lunch breaks. What are the odds that everything would work out so perfectly?

"It's God's will," Rose argues, staring pointedly at the roll of paper in her lap, twisting the end around her fingers. "I know it in my heart of hearts."

Weston looks skeptical still, but Dallon finds himself inclined to agree, however much he won't say it aloud; announcing the implication that Kyla was meant to find that paper brings with it the possibility that Brendon was meant to meet Dallon. How else would he have ended up in New York, let alone had the funds to purchase enough ad space to catch any sort of attention? He's in love with the boy, but the concept of their meeting being planned, written by God's hands, is too frightening. It borders on blasphemy.

Just being in love is enough. He doesn’t need the rest of that baloney.

A knock echoes from the door, and the three of them freeze. Henry finally glances up from his paperwork, and removes his reading glasses.

“It’s Mama,” Weston hisses, “don’t let her in.”

Henry frowns and shakes his head, raising his voice, “Come in!”

Weston sinks down in his wheelchair, and Dallon scrambles to hide behind him, leaving Rose standing by herself when Ellen opens the door and walks inside. “There you are!” She says in a strained voice, her smile heavy. Rose attempts to smile back, her hands still wrapped in crepe paper. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Rose, your dress needs taken in, so I need you upstairs, and boys, you should go help Jordan, he’s setting up outside-”

“We were working on the rosettes!” Rose says, displaying her hands. Dallon rocks to his feet, picks up one of his sub-par white roses and holds it out as well.

“Yeah, Mama. And why don’t we wait until Brendon can come help with the outside set-up too?”

Ellen, her hair falling loose from its bun, puts her hands on her hips. “He hasn’t been here in several days! We can’t just wait for him-”

“His family’s in town,” Dallon explains calmly, “but he might be able to come by in a few days. If not, they’ll be gone before the wedding, and he can help then.”

And Ellen stares at him, her blue eyes narrow, hands still on her hips. Dallon blinks back, still offering her the flower, but her eyes stay on his face. “I don’t know why we entertain you,” she says after a long moment, snatching the flower from his hand. “You and Brendon!” she clarifies, when he looks confused. “There’s no point to this. At best, you’ll both outgrow this infatuation. At worst, he’ll run off with your money and some chippy and leave you alone.”

“Jiminy Cricket, Mama,” Dallon breathes, “that’s not true. That’s not true at all, and who cares about me and Brendon? This is _Weston’s_ wedding. Come on, sit down for a moment, make some flowers with us-”

Rose’s eyes widen like that’s the last thing she wants right now, but she stays quiet. Ellen’s lips tighten, and she shakes her head. “No, Dallon! I don’t trust that boy! I don’t want him at the wedding!”

“He makes his own money! Plenty of it! There’s no reason for you not to trust him, and he’s coming to the wedding, because Rose and Weston want him there.” Rose clears her throat and takes the seat next to Weston, and the couple exchange a concerned glance but don’t speak up. Dallon gives a frustrated sigh. “Mama, I know you don’t like it, but I’m not getting married and neither is Brendon. That’s just how it is.”

“Dallon,” Ellen almost pleads, “I’ve heard about what it’s like out there, for boys your age. With the drugs and the liquor and the jazz, and all the girls with their skirts above their knees, sharing themselves with any man who offers a dance... you don’t have to resort to men. There are good girls still out there!”

“You sound like Ruth,” Dallon says with a grimace. “That’s not what’s happening with me and Brendon. Stop worrying about that. Go sit in the drawing room for a few moments. I’ll send someone to bring you tea-”

“I just don’t want him to leave you lonely,” Ellen says softly. There’s a rustle of papers from Henry’s desk, and suddenly Rose picks up a conversation with Weston, something mundane and pointless and loud. Dallon puts his hands on his mother’s shoulders and gently guides her out into the hallway.

“He won’t,” Dallon says simply. “He promised.”

That doesn’t seem to be enough for Ellen, because she glances at him with those worried eyes, but he has her sit down on the sofa, promises to send a boy for some tea, promises that the wedding will still be fine if she takes a few minutes to relax. And she takes a deep breath, settling back into the cushions.

“You’re a good boy, Dallon,” she says with a tired smile. “You’ll meet the right girl someday.”

Dallon takes a deep breath, but decides not to argue. If he and Brendon were together ten years, she might still be saying such things. And that’s all right, because Dallon knows she’s wrong. She can say whatever she wants, and it might be frustrating or annoying, but that doesn’t make it the truth.

And Dallon can live with that.

 

\-----

 

“You’re not a bad pianist.”

Dallon chuckles under his breath. Brendon’s hands slide under his arms and for a moment, on this cloudy morning, Dallon wonders if he’s still asleep, dreaming. “Not as good as you,” he mumbles in response, playing a few more cheerful chords. “Watch your hands.”

“Not this morning,” Brendon breathes against his ear, and Dallon shivers. “The ladies decided to go out without me. Heard some talk about buying me a present. Maybe one for you too.” He laughs, squeezes Dallon’s torso. “So we’re alone.”

“Copacetic,” Dallon grins, spinning around on the piano seat, resting his hands on Brendon’s hips. “Then do you want to come to Sands Point with me?” Brendon makes a face, and Dallon laughs. “I’m razzing you, come on. Gimme some cash.”

Brendon smiles, and puts both hands on Dallon’s face, leaning in for a soft kiss. Dallon wraps his arms around Brendon’s waist, loose and trusting as the kiss deepens, one of Brendon’s hands moving to Dallon’s hair. Dallon makes a low noise when Brendon nibbles at his lower lip, and pulls away, just enough to breathe. “How long will they be gone?”

“I’m not sure,” Brendon answers, pressing his lips to the bridge of Dallon’s nose, and Dallon’s hands move to grip Brendon’s ass, and the younger boy gasps. “Hey! Watch your mitts,” he continues with a grin. “What if my mother came in the door and saw that?”

“Maybe she’d be jealous,” Dallon teases, shifting for another kiss. “I’ve missed you,” he mumbles against Brendon’s lips, and Brendon sighs into him, shakes his head.

“I can’t kiss you properly like this,” he says, pulling away, a hand running down Dallon’s shoulder.

“Bed?” Dallon suggests eagerly. Brendon frowns.

“Sofa,” he answers, then sighs when Dallon gives him a disappointed look. “Kitten, I’ve missed you too, but we can’t fuck right now, not if we don’t know when they’ll be back.”

“We’ll just be quiet-”

“No.” Brendon takes Dallon’s hand, pulls him up and over towards the sofa, takes a seat and guides Dallon to sit next to him. He runs a hand down the side of Dallon’s face, then leans in to continue their kiss, and though he’s still disappointed, Dallon pulls Brendon closer, decides that this is better than nothing. He’s been staying up to see Brendon off before work, kiss him good-bye at the door, and that’s nice, but this is how things used to be between them, before the family arrived. Dallon leans into him, pulls him closer, and runs his hand down Brendon’s chest. Brendon pulls away for a breath, and Dallon takes the opportunity to run his lips down Brendon’s neck, though he’s effectively stopped by the collar of Brendon’s shirt. His first instinct is to simply undo the top few buttons, but Brendon stops him, pulls away with a frown.

“I just want to neck!” Dallon protests before Brendon can accuse him of anything else. “That’s hard to do with your shirt in the way.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Brendon mutters, and undoes the buttons himself, exposing a stretch of skin past his collarbone, and before he can say anything else, Dallon attacks, biting and sucking at the skin on Brendon’s neck. Brendon makes a soft noise, tilting his head to the side, and Dallon takes that as a good sign, presses his hand to Brendon’s waist. “Dallon,” Brendon whispers in what might be a warning, but his breath hitches when Dallon bites the crest of his ear, so Dallon ignores him, slides his hand around to Brendon’s stomach, then down to feel his half-hard prick in his trousers. Brendon moans, but swiftly grabs Dallon’s wrist, stopping him. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” Dallon pouts. “You liked it. Just let me, please? You don’t even have to worry about returning the favor, I just want to touch you.”

Brendon worries his lower lip as he shifts away from Dallon’s attentions. “We don’t know when my family will come home...”

“Then we go upstairs and stay quiet. It won’t take long, I promise, and if they come home we can tell them-”

“Dallon,” Brendon interrupts, pressing his hand to Dallon’s cheek. “Remember about a week ago? The night before my family arrived? I had something to tell you and you fell asleep?”

Dallon’s heart skips a beat.

“I promised myself, we can’t fuck or pet or fool around again until you let me tell you. I was going to wait until... until Mama left, but...” Brendon sighs and looks at his lap. “But I miss you. I hate waking up alone. You did that to me. Funny, isn’t it?” he attempts a tired smile. “I spent two years sleeping alone on a floor, didn’t bother me at all until you showed up. With your goofy smile and those big blue eyes.”

Dallon puts a hand on Brendon’s knee, doesn’t shift his gaze away. “Brendon?”

Brendon lifts his head, still worrying that full lower lip. “What?”

“I know what you’re going to say. And it’s okay. I just want to hear you say it.”

Brendon blinks, leans in closer. “How do you... Christ, Dallon,” he whispers, shaking his head. “If you know, then-”

“Please say it.”

Brendon takes a deep breath. Holds it. Dallon waits patiently, doesn’t take his eyes off Brendon’s. After a long moment, Brendon runs his hand down Dallon’s shoulder, his arm, to take the hand that’s on his knee. “I love you,” he says, soft but clear, and Dallon feels dizzy, clings to Brendon’s hand as he leans in for a slow, gentle kiss. And Brendon clutches him close, shivers when Dallon pulls away.

“I loved you first,” Dallon says, teasing, and Brendon laughs softly, grabs his collar and pulls him back in.

It all feels right, somehow, now that it’s been said, now that they’ve crossed that final line. Brendon leans back onto the couch, pulls Dallon with him, and they’re not hiding anything from each other anymore. All the secrets and distrust are gone. Maybe there will still be problems in the future, more fighting, more nights spent angry and alone, but knowing that he is loved by the man he is madly in love with, Dallon doesn’t worry. He doesn’t worry about waking up to find the house empty and Brendon gone, because he knows now: Brendon stays because he’s in love.

They kiss and hold one another until they hear voices on the other side of the door, which causes them to scramble apart. Brendon starts to rush for the piano, but Dallon grabs his wrist.

“Come to my room after work tonight,” he murmurs as the front door opens. Brendon glances at the entryway, then nods quickly, his face flushed, before he takes a seat at the piano, starts to play _[Carolina in the Morning.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EoJJcixSfjo)_ Kara gushes that she loves this song as she sets her bags down, and Dallon reaches for the nearest book, opens the page and starts to read.

Nothing could be sweeter.

  
\------  


A few days later, Dallon comes home from Sands Point and finds an empty house. It’s past six, so the staff has gone home, but for Brendon and his family not to be home by now is strange. Dallon glances at the grandfather clock in the drawing room, just to be sure, and yes: almost seven-thirty.

There’s a note on the floor of the kitchen, that must have fallen off the table. Dallon kneels to pick it up.

 

_Went out to dinner with the family. Back before nine!  
\- Brendon_

 

Dallon glances at the clock again, mainly out of habit, then sighs, and decides to go to the diner down the street for his own dinner.

He passes the time there by chatting with a man and his young daughter, seated at the table next to his. The man had served in the war, and survived to father a beautiful little girl, and Dallon can’t help but think of Weston and Rose, and the children they’ll soon have. His meal is cheap, a sandwich and a Coke, so before he leaves, he pays for the little family’s meal as well, and buys them each a slice of apple pie. It’s not charity so much as gratitude, and congratulations. The smile on the soldier’s face as he watches his daughter dig into her dessert shows that he understands.

It’s past nine when he gets home, and still the townhouse is dark and silent. He calls Brendon’s name, and gets no answer. After a moment of uncertainty, he decides to give them a while longer; maybe they lost track of time at the restaurant or decided to catch a show. Brendon has to be at work by eleven, and his family likes to go to bed around ten, so they’ll probably be home soon. Yes. Once he convinces himself, he lights a candle and climbs the stairs to bed, preferring to read by lantern light.

Even as he reads, tries to tell himself not to worry, his eyes keep darting towards the clock on top of the chiffonier, the one with the cracked face. As it ticks on, deafening in the silence of the house, Dallon’s heartbeat starts to pick up. But he tries to keep his eyes on the page, focuses on the words. Any moment now, he’ll hear them walk through the front door, chattering excitedly about how wonderful the city is, while Brendon makes a big show of wanting to go to bed, in the hopes they’ll follow suit and give him an opportunity to change into his red tailcoat and white trousers.

But that moment doesn’t come.

Dallon finally sets his book down and heads back downstairs at ten-thirty. There’s no chance of anyone sneaking into the house while he’s awake, not with the way the front door slams if you don’t catch it, or the way the stairs creak so loudly. Unsure of what else to do, Dallon heads for the kitchen and picks up the phone, asks the operator to connect him to Club Fronton, giving her the number. Coat check answers, and Dallon asks for Brendon.

“Who?”

“Brendon Urie. The pianist?”

“Oh!” She says, then hums thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen him come in yet, it’s a little early still. Did you want me to ask someone else if they’ve seen him?”

“Please? Ask Spencer. The drummer,” he clarifies before she can ask, then impatiently taps his foot against the floor while he waits for her to return. He’s surprised when Spencer’s voice is the one he hears.

“Who’s asking for Brendon?”

“It’s Dallon. Who else?”

Spencer laughs. “It’s too early for him to be in, you know that.”

Dallon chews on his lower lip, leans closer to the mouthpiece. “I know, but I haven’t seen him at all today.”

“I thought that was typical, with his family being in town.”

“No, no, I mean...” Dallon sighs, tries to collect his thoughts. “He left a note saying he’d be home before nine, and his family likes to go to bed before ten, but no one’s home yet.”

“Really?”

“It’s just me.” Dallon runs a hand over his face. “I thought I’d check if he stopped by the club or something. Warned that he’d be late, at least.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Spencer muses. There’s a conversation occurring somewhere nearby, and Dallon hears Spencer shout, asking if anyone’s seen Brendon today. A female voice pipes up, picks up the phone.

“Hello, who is this?”

“This is Dallon, who’s this?”

“Elizabeth!” She says excitedly. “I haven’t seen you in ages! What’s cooking, sugar?”

Dallon rolls his eyes. “Level with me: have you seen Brendon today?”

“Yes, Ryan and I saw him earlier this evening! He was with these women, introduced them as family. Seemed nervous to see us. Embarrassed, almost!” She laughs, like she has no idea why Brendon would be ashamed to introduce people like Ryan and Elizabeth to his rural, traditional family. “I started asking him about what songs we should play tonight, and you know, I was in a real good mood, so I asked if he wanted to sing with me. He went pure white, I tell you, he was so excited!”

Oh no. Dallon groans and shakes his head. Elizabeth carries on, trying to convince Dallon to come by and see, in case Brendon does sing, and finally Dallon cuts her off, asks for Spencer again.

“She tell you anything worthwhile?” Spencer asks.

Dallon sighs, “Brendon’s family doesn’t really approve of jazz, or moreso the lifestyle associated with it. Liquor and dancing girls, you know? So he’s been sneaking out to work, and if Elizabeth told them he was lying then... I don’t know.”

Spencer is quiet a moment. “Listen, it’s almost time to go on stage, and he’s not here yet. But if I see him, I’ll tell him to call home.”

Dallon thanks him, then hesitates before asking, “If... If I need you to help me look for him tonight, could you?”

“Dallon, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it just started raining out. People are coming in soaked, and as cold as it is, we might be iced over. You sure you want to go out there and look for him?”

“Yes,” Dallon says stubbornly, “ _especially_ in this weather.”

“Then yeah,” Spencer answers with a sigh. “Call back if you need, and I’ll run out to help. I’ll try and convince Ryan, Elizabeth and Gabe to come too.”

“You can have that many people missing in a night?”

“We have back ups, Dallon,” Spencer chuckles. “And Brendon’s a friend. If he’s really missing, we need to find him. So call back if you have to, and we’ll figure out a way to help.”

“Thank you,” Dallon breathes, something warm igniting in his heart, to hear that Brendon has such good friends after all. “Thank you so much, Spencer, I’ll... I think I’ll go walk around a bit and see if I can’t find him.”

“Just wander around calling his name? I don’t think that’ll do much.”

“It’s all I can think of!”

“Well. Then make sure you’re bundled up, jake? We don’t need you freezing to death while you’re out there.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Spencer.” And Dallon hangs the receiver back in its cradle. Sighs. Heads for the coat closet, to pull his thickest coat back on, followed by a cap, scarf and gloves. When he opens the front door, he sees that Spencer wasn’t kidding about the weather; the rain is coming hard and fast, and the road looks slick and shiny. Dallon takes a deep breath and pulls the scarf up over his nose before locking the door behind him, and heading out onto the sidewalk. In a city this large, he’s not sure where to begin, and decides to go with his worst fear: Brendon catching a train out of town. Penn Station it is.

As he walks, trying to keep his head down, he periodically calls Brendon’s name, peers into every alleyway, asks the rare passerby if they’ve seen a young, dark-haired man with dominant features, large eyes and lips, but all for nothing. Even once he arrives at the station, gives the clerks the same description, only one of them thinks he saw someone who matched it. “He didn’t buy a ticket,” the clerk says, which causes Dallon to relax a little, but only a little. “He sat on the bench and seemed to think about it for the longest time, but never approached. I didn’t see which way he went. Just looked up and he was gone. This was about three hours ago.”

Dallon thanks him, and feels a bit better knowing that at least Brendon is still in the city. More than likely, if the man actually saw him. But the city is icy tonight, dark and dangerous, and Brendon is probably alone and freezing. Dallon still has no idea where to look, but decides that any direction is better than not looking at all.

He takes his time. Walks past Club Fronton, past other clubs in the area, towards the museum, through Central Park. He spends almost two hours wandering the city in this awful weather, to no avail. Even with the scarf and gloves, his face and hands are numb before he decides to head home and call Spencer, ask for his help. He still doesn’t know where to look, is fully aware that anywhere he’s already looked could be where Brendon is right now, and his confidence is starting to break. What if Brendon did skip town, used another clerk to purchase his ticket? But he said he loved Dallon, promised not to leave, and Dallon believes both of these statements; they spent the past two nights together, in Dallon’s bed, unable to avoid each other after those emotions were finally shared, and having Brendon right there, curled against his torso, wrapped up in his arms, Dallon believes with all his heart that Brendon loves him, and has no reason to leave.

But none of that assuages his fears that Brendon could be dead or dying, freezing, maybe attacked by some thief or gang member. He walks faster, determined to get home as soon as possible, get Spencer and the others out there to help him before its too late.

Dallon resolves not to sleep until Brendon is found. There are no other options tonight.


	15. Let's Dance

Dallon takes the long way home, still calling Brendon’s name, hoping in vain that somehow, against all odds, he will be heard. As he approaches the townhouse, he notices a small form curled up in the shadows next to the front steps. He stops walking and stares for a long moment, the wind whipping his ears, his hands chilled to the bone, before the shadow moves, revealing bare hands. Bare hands, in this sleet!

“Brendon?” Dallon murmurs. The shadow shifts again, and praise the Lord, Brendon is looking up at him with wide eyes, his teeth chattering, lips almost blue. “Brendon. Thank Christ Almighty, _Brendon_!” And Dallon rushes forward, pulls Brendon into his arms, doesn’t care about the neighbors right now. The smaller boy is shivering roughly, and Dallon starts unbuttoning his coat, wraps it around Brendon’s shoulders. “How long have you been here?! Where the devil is your key?”

But Brendon just looks at him, brown eyes still wide, almost surprised. Dallon sighs, starts to guide him up the front steps towards the door, pulls him inside and immediately heads for the drawing room, to light the fire. He drops Brendon in front of the still-growing flames, before rushing to collect blankets from upstairs. Its only when he opens the guest room doors that he realizes they’re empty; no boxes, no bags. The Uries have definitely gone home. Five days early. Without Brendon. Dallon sighs again, and grabs the blankets anyway, takes them downstairs to wrap around Brendon, who is still silent, watching Dallon with those large eyes.

It’s only when Dallon sits down next to him, starts stroking his wet hair, that Brendon speaks: “You went looking for me?”

Dallon raises his eyebrows, then smiles affectionately. “Of course I did, you sap. You know I can’t live without you.” Brendon takes a deep breath, still shivering, and Dallon gently grips the hair on the back of his head. “You should get out of those wet clothes.”

“Dallon-”

“You’re not going to get warm with them on, and you’ll catch sick.” He leans over to kiss Brendon’s forehead as he gets to his feet. “While you do that, I’m going to call the club and let Spencer know you’re okay.”

“Spencer?” Brendon says, sounding surprised as he unbuttons his shirt with quaking hands. “Spencer was worried too?”

“Of course he was. Jiminy Cricket, Brendon,” Dallon says with that same loving smile. “You’re a fool if you think no one cares about you.”

He retreats to the kitchen, again asking the operator for Club Fronton, and asking the coat check girl if he can speak with Spencer. She tells him the band is still on-stage, and he decides to leave a message instead and hope it actually makes its way into Spencer’s hands. As he hangs the receiver back in its cradle, he thinks that breakfast with Spencer and Haley would be nice, especially when, even after tonight’s fiasco, he’s expected to spend most of tomorrow at Sands Point again.

When he returns to the drawing room, a pile of wet clothes is resting on the hearth, and Brendon is wrapped up in the blankets again, though he’s not shivering so much anymore, and that’s good at least. Dallon smiles again as he reclaims his seat next to Brendon, close enough that their shoulders touch. Brendon doesn’t look at him, but his breathing picks up, and his shoulders tense in acknowledgement of his presence.

They’re silent for a long while, the crackle of the fire and their soft breaths the only sound. Dallon thinks he should be more worried about Brendon, about his health and his mentality, but right now he’s just so relieved to have found Brendon, and found him alive, that the rest doesn’t seem to matter. Brendon’s color is starting to come back anyway, and he’s not shivering at all anymore, and though he still clutches the blankets tight around his body, Dallon knows that that’s not because of any chill. Finally Dallon sighs and turns to look at his companion.

“What happened?” Brendon takes a deep breath and glances at him. “Was it because of Elizabeth?”

Brendon blinks in surprise. “How did you- … Christ, Dallon.” He finally gives up a small smile. “Sometimes I think you can read minds.”

“Just yours,” Dallon teases, bumping his shoulder against Brendon’s.

“Probably not, because it wasn’t Elizabeth.” Brendon shakes his head, hugs his knees close to his chest. “Once I explained what my real job was, they were fine. No one minded. Mama told me I was thinking too hard, and they were just glad to have me back in their lives. She didn’t approve, but at least it was a job.”

Dallon frowns. Shifts closer. “So what did happen?”

Brendon sighs, “Kara. She’d been quiet all day, hardly ate anything, didn’t look at me, but I didn’t think anything of it. Mama kept razzing that she might finally be pregnant, and we kept that going until we got back here. Much earlier than we thought we would. And Kara stood in the kitchen doorway and demanded to know why I lived with you if I didn’t have a job with your father.”

Dallon raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“And. I said we were still friends. We met in the Chicago clubs, and you wanted to help me out. Almost the truth, right?” Brendon swallows, drops his head into his arms. “She called me a liar. Said she saw me sneaking out of your room this morning.”

Dallon’s entire body goes cold as he stares at Brendon. “What?” he breathes, brow furrowed. “But... we were so careful. It was _early_ when you left! I was still half-asleep!”

Brendon chuckles softly. “Yeah, half enough to follow me to the door and beg for one more kiss. You weren’t even dressed!” When Dallon blushes and scratches the back of his neck, Brendon smiles fondly. “It was sweet, though. I couldn’t say no, so it’s as much my own fault for indulging you.”

“She saw us kiss?”

“And you were naked. When I was coming out of your room.”

Dallon exhales slowly. “I’m surprised she didn’t say anything right then. What a scandal.”

“I know,” Brendon says softly. “I can’t say why it took her so long to bring it up. But when she told me what she saw, with Kyla and Mama right there... I didn’t know what to say.” He relaxes his legs, stretching them out in front of him and curling his toes. Dallon blushes and tries not to stare, tries to focus on what Brendon actually needs right now. “They left. There wasn’t a fight or anything. I didn’t have a response to what Kara saw, so they went upstairs and started packing. Didn’t even speak to me. Once it all finally caught up with me, I ran.” He shrugs. Sighs. “Like a coward. I wasn’t thinking.”

“But you came back,” Dallon encourages, voice soft, shifting to rest his head on Brendon’s shoulder, and Brendon laughs at his easy affection. “You sat outside in the rain like a fool, but you still came back.”

“I didn’t think to bring my key. Or a proper coat,” Brendon murmurs, leaning his head on Dallon’s, and his voice sounds strained when he continues: “I almost left. I hate to admit it, but I went to Penn Station and I almost left.”

“Where would you have gone?” Dallon asks quietly, his arms sliding around Brendon’s waist.

“Anywhere. Anywhere that wasn’t here, or New Jersey, or Chicago or New Orleans, but still big enough to drown in. Be forgotten in.” Brendon takes a deep breath, his hand resting in Dallon’s hair. “I wanted things to go back to how they were before I met you. Simple and hidden. Yeah, I’d probably be poor as shit again, certainly lonely, but at least I’d be safe. At least I could pretend I never found my family. Never had them reject me.” His fingers grip the back of Dallon’s head, and he tilts his face until his lips brush Dallon’s forehead. “But I don’t think I could pretend I never met you.”

Dallon closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe, then sits up to look at Brendon again. “Why would you want to go back to that? Sleeping on floors in a bad part of town? I don’t... I don’t understand.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” Brendon answers, smiling slightly. “I’d gotten my family back, then had them torn away again. I couldn’t see past that loss. But while I was sitting there, trying to decide where to go, I kept thinking of you. How much I’d miss you. That I promised you I wouldn’t leave.” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “You were brave enough to come back here. You stopped running away. What a piker I would’ve been, to run out on you after all that. What a coward.” Sighing, he lifts his head and closes his eyes. “You stopped running. I guess if I want to be with you, I have to stop running too.”

Dallon watches him for a long moment, then says, “You’re the reason I stopped running.”

Brendon opens his eyes and smiles. “You’re the best thing in my life. You saw me as something more than just some queer street rat, something better than a hooker. And you came looking for me. Every time, not just tonight, but when we met, too. You see me as someone worth finding.”

And Dallon feels like he’s boiling over with words and emotions, so many things he can’t organize into proper thoughts or expressions, so he puts a hand on Brendon’s face and pulls him in for a kiss. Brendon returns his passion, cold hands in Dallon’s hair, keeping him close as he deepens the kiss, leans back to lay on the floor. Dallon makes a soft noise, then lifts himself up onto his hands, keeps his eyes on Brendon’s.

“I love you,” he says. It’s the best response he can think of.

And Brendon smiles. “You sap,” he teases, and Dallon surrenders to another kiss.

  
\------

 

When Dallon arrives at Sands Point the next morning, with Brendon at his side, Ellen looks uncomfortable. Almost guilty, though she smiles and ushers them in and offers them oatmeal cookies. Brendon has been quiet since they woke up this morning, curled up close under the pile of blankets, on the floor in front of the fireplace, but he smiles at Ellen, follows her to the kitchen, asks what needs to be done. There’s still over a week left until the wedding, but the guests will start arriving within the next couple days, and Ellen is happy to have more help in fixing up the back gardens, or setting up the guest rooms. And Brendon is happy to have a distraction.

Dallon excuses himself, and promises to join Brendon outside in a moment. He heads for Henry’s office, slipping inside without knocking, and taking the seat opposite his father’s.

“You can’t hide in here anymore,” Henry says without looking up from his paperwork, “so don’t try.”

“I’m not hiding,” Dallon laughs. “I want to talk about my shop.”

Henry looks up, eyebrows raised. “Your shop?”

“Yes, Papa. Remember? My bookshop. I’ve found a location and spoken to the landlord, and I’ve spoken to a few other sellers to see where they buy their books from-”

“Dallon,” Henry interrupts, “this is all good, and I’m willing to help you get it started, but have you thought about how to keep it going?”

“Actually, yes.” Dallon grins. “My friend Jon is graduating from university in May. I wrote to him, and he said that once he’s married, he’d be happy to move up here and help with the accounting.” Ian had written that he’s considering moving up as well, and Dallon’s thinking he would make a good cashier, to start. “He’ll be out here probably not too long after we open, if we start putting things in motion as soon as the wedding’s over.”

Henry watches Dallon carefully, resting his elbows on the desk. “And Brendon?”

“Thinks it’s a great idea.” Dallon shrugs. “But he’s going to start putting some songs together, try and get a job on 28th Street. Tin Pan Alley.”

Henry watches him for a moment more, then sighs and leans back in his chair. “You still have some work to do, but you’re definitely on the right track.” He chuckles softly. “I suppose I’m just surprised you’ve held to this idea. I’m still not used to you being... like this.”

“Mature?” Dallon supplies. Henry grins.

“Once your brother’s wedding is behind us, I’ll go with you to see the space you’ve picked out, and we’ll negotiate with the landlord. Hell, I haven’t been to the city in months,” Henry chuckles. “It’ll be fun. Maybe I’ll even convince your mother to come. We could have dinner at the townhouse.”

The thought of having family under his roof again so soon makes Dallon panic for a moment, but his parents won’t be staying the night or forcing him to hide the nature of his relationship with Brendon. And Ellen will be more relaxed then, won’t be so pushy or demanding. So Dallon smiles.

“Invite the newlyweds, if they can make it out of bed,” he kids. “It’ll be nice.”

And after the war, after Weston coming home so broken, Dallon never thought he’d be able to say that dinner with his family would be nice. But he means it. He’s looking forward to it, the same way he’s looking forward to the wedding. He isn’t sure what that means, but the thought makes him grin so wide that Henry can’t seem to help grinning back.

Even in the wake of last night’s disaster, Dallon’s never felt so content.

  
\------

 

A week later, Brendon is laughing again. He goes to morning rehearsals, spends his afternoons writing songs, and after his late night performances, comes home to Dallon’s arms. He’s managed to convince Elizabeth to sing one of his songs with him, to see how the crowd likes it, and it’s almost funny how, once Ryan got the hint and stopped chasing Brendon, Elizabeth took to him with the same maternal air that Greta did. Maybe girls can always tell when a boy has no mother. Dallon isn’t sure. But Brendon seems to like the attention, and likes Elizabeth just fine when she’s smart enough not to use pet names on Dallon.

The afternoon before Weston’s wedding, both men are actually home in the townhouse. The morning was a tornado of activity, everyone getting in their last minute fitting for their suits, and Dallon managed to sneak Brendon and himself out of the house as soon as they had their suits in hand. Now, Dallon is happy to lie on the sofa and listen as Brendon fumbles through his latest song, a sweet little melody that he seems to prefer on ukulele, though Dallon thinks the piano fits better.

“What about guitar?” Brendon suggests, humming the chords as he plays the appropriate keys.

“You don’t have a guitar,” Dallon answers lazily, eyes closed, hands behind his head. This is what every day should be like.

“Then I’ll buy one,” Brendon says stubbornly, reaching for the ukulele again, repeating the same chords. “It’d be a good compromise. And if I sold it as a parlor piece instead of performance, it might actually get somewhere that way.”

“We’ll buy a guitar after the wedding, then,” Dallon yawns, “but play it on the piano again for me.”

Brendon smiles tenderly, and turns back to the piano. As he plays, as Dallon listens contentedly, one of the maids answers the front door, and is polite enough to wait until Brendon has finished playing to announce that the postman just brought a letter. Dallon reaches for it without getting up, and raises his eyebrows when he sees the name on the back.

“It’s for you,” he says slowly, looking at Brendon, who frowns and stands up, moves away from the piano. “It’s postmarked New Jersey.”

Brendon winces, but situates himself between Dallon’s legs, leaning comfortably back against Dallon’s chest as he opens the letter, reads it aloud:

 

  
_Brendon,_

 _Please don’t attempt to contact us. We’ve decided not to tell Papa about you, because it would just be bad for his heart. Maybe someday, if you come to realize your mistakes, take a proper job and a decent wife, we could welcome you home again._

 _\- Kyla_

 

“It’s so cold,” Brendon says quietly. Dallon shifts, puts an arm around Brendon’s waist, kisses the back of his neck.

“Did you write to them?”

“No. I thought I’d give them time,” Brendon sighs. “I guess I can never give them enough time.”

“You wouldn’t consider finding yourself a bride a fair price to pay to get your family back?”

Brendon sits up and twists to look at Dallon, his eyebrow raised as he shakes his head. “Losing you is too high a cost,” he answers, as if it were obvious.

Dallon’s really not used to a Brendon that doesn’t censor himself. It’s so strange to hear Brendon admit to his feelings without stuttering, without stopping himself, and Dallon can’t help blushing under such a blunt confession. But he doesn’t mind. Such easy honesty is just another sign of Brendon’s love.

Brendon stands again, tugs on the cuff of his shirt sleeve. “Looks like I have no family, again,” he mutters, almost bitter. Dallon sits up and takes his busy, anxious hand, brings it to his lips.

“You have me,” he responds, pressing Brendon’s hand against his cheek.

And Brendon smiles. “That’s more than enough.”

  
\------

 

There’s a definite January chill in the air on the day of Rose and Weston’s wedding, but it appears Ellen’s prayers were answered, because the sky is clear and the sun is bright, and there’s been no snow the past few days. The ceremony is held in the back garden, with family and friends, and Rose is radiant in her mother’s blue gown with the high lace collar, her dark red hair piled on her head and scattered with paper flowers. Weston had insisted on using his crutches to walk down the aisle, and Ellen bursts into tears when he sets them aside, kisses his bride, manages to keep his balance.

And everyone is smiling as they head inside to celebrate.

Dallon’s absence from family events for the past several years means that his presence causes quite a stir; his mother’s family is fairly large and most of them have come quite a distance, and they’re all so pleased to see how tall he is, how handsome he is, how much he looks like Weston and Henry, but thank God he got Ellen’s eyes. They keep asking him, when will it be his turn, if he’s found some lucky lady, and all he can do is laugh and be as vague as possible. No one seems to realize that Brendon is his guest, maybe because Brendon has opted to sit near the wall and wait for the fuss to end. Dallon feels guilty, but he just can’t get away. If the family isn’t swarming Weston, they’re swarming him.

When he finally manages to break free, he pulls out his flask, the one he used to carry everywhere but had to dig out of one of the drawers in the chiffonier, after finding out yesterday that his mother wouldn’t be providing liquor. It’s filled with homemade gin, and he collapses in a chair next to Brendon, offers the flask to him, and Brendon grins.

“It’s not all that bad,” he teases.

“You’re not the one answering the same questions fifty times,” Dallon shoots back. “Do you want a drink or not?”

Brendon takes the flask, but doesn’t drink from it. “Your uncle David came to speak to me.”

Dallon frowns and glances at him. “I didn’t even know he was here.”

“He didn’t want to intrude on the rest of the family, while they were greeting you.” Brendon finally takes a drink, hands the flask back with a grimace. “Did you make that? Tastes like shit.”

“Says you,” Dallon pouts. “What did he want?”

“He noticed we arrived together. Sat together at dinner. That I was alone while you were busy. He’s not a sissy, you know, like Jordan was saying.” Brendon wrinkles his nose and Dallon glances over his shoulder, where Jordan and Ruth are chatting rather animatedly with one of Henry’s sisters. Ruth has pointedly avoided him since that dinner, and he almost has to admire her determination. Jordan has been polite, but distant. Almost sad. Dallon doesn’t care for his pity. “He had rouge on his cheeks, so maybe he used to dress up, but I think he’s too old for it now.”

“So he figured us out?” Dallon asks.

“Queers have a way of finding other queers,” Brendon smiles. “He said that this family, they’re a little embarrassed by him, but it could’ve been worse. Which I know,” he sighs, “but we shouldn’t let their embarrassment get to us. We shouldn’t cater to it. It’s okay here, in this house. For us to be together.”

Dallon laughs softly, takes Brendon’s hand. “I’m sorry if I was ignoring you. Next time I get swarmed, I’ll let you stand there with me and help answer questions about when I’m going to get married.”

“Maybe it’s best to stay unclear on that one,” Brendon giggles.

They’re quiet for a long moment, seated comfortably next to each other, holding hands. Not clinging or clutching, not desperate or sad, but just because it’s nice to be reminded that someone else is there with you. A few family members glance their way, seem surprised or flustered, but no one says anything. The hum of conversation is relaxing when you’re not part of it, and someone turns on the radio, a jazz tune buzzing through the room, and Brendon laughs.

“What’s so funny?” Dallon asks, lifting his head.

“It’s been so long since I listened to jazz without being the one performing it. I can’t remember the last time I danced...” he trails off, then sits up, smirking at Dallon. “Yes I can. It was with you. The day we met.”

Dallon blinks at him, then slowly starts to smile. “That’s a long time to go without dancing.”

“I know. I also know the same can’t be said for you,” but his words aren’t vicious, and Dallon smiles wider as Brendon raises that eyebrow, expectant, almost challenging. They’ve come so far since September, and Dallon knows he’s never been happier.

So he stands up and adjusts his jacket, fixes the crease in his trousers, and offers Brendon his hand once again.

“C’mon, dollface,” he grins, “let’s dance.”

 

 **END**


End file.
